' 


.-. 


) 


GIOCONDA. 


Tragedy  in  4  Acts,  By  Gabrielle  d'Annunzio 


Lucio  SETTALA,  Sculptor 

SILVIA,  his  wife 

BEATA,  their  child 

FRANCESCA  DONI,  Silvia's  sister 

LORENZO  GADDI    Sculptor,    )  g     ^  ,  friends 

COSIMO  DALBO,  Painter,        ) 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI 

The  SIREXETTA 

The  first  three  acts  play  in  Florence,  the  fourth  on  the  strand  of  Pisa,  in  our  time 


Synopsis. 

Owing  to  a  violent  passion  which  he  feels  for  Gioconda  Dianti,  the  sculptor  Lucio  Settala  has  attempted 
suicide,  and  it  is  only  due  to  the  unceasing  nursing  on  the  part  of  his  wife  Silvia  that  he  has  recovered. 

Here  begins  the  first  act.  Silvia  confesses  to  the  fatherly  friend  of  her  husband,  Lorenzo  Gaddi,  the 
hope  that  she  will  now  live  with  Lucio  happy  and  contented,  and  become  once  more  young  in  her  love. 
Francesca  Doni,  Silvia's  sister,  narrates  to  the  painter  Cosimo  Dalbo  all  the  details  of  the  attempted  suicide, 
and  expresses  the  belief  that  Gioconda  has  not  yet  abandoned  her  designs  -upon  Lucio.  Dalbo  describes 
the  wonders  of  Egypt,  from  where  he  has  just  returned,  and  this  recalls  to  Settala's  mind  his  sphynx 
statue,  which  he  has  modeled  after  Gioconda's  beauty,  and  which  is  awaiting  the  return  of  the  master  in 
the  still  studio  down  on  the  Mugnone.  Silvia  has  forgiven  Lucio,  and  happy  and  contented  she  presses  again 
the  breast  of  her  newly-won  husband. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  second  act,  Lucio  confesses  to  his  friend  Dalbo  that  the  passion  for  Gioconda, 
from  whom  he  has  received  a  communication,  is  again  consuming  him  with  all  the  old-time  force.  Lucio 
states  that  he  was  born  to  create  statues,  and  in  the  fulfillment  of  this  vocation  he  needs  that  woman,  to 
model  whose  perfect  proportions  and  to  immortalize  the  same  even  the  white  marble  blocks  in  the  quarries 
of  Carrara  are  longing.  In  vain  does  Dalbo  rack  his  brain  for  a  way  to  save  his  friend.  Silvia  learns  from 
Francesca  that  Gioconda  had  stated,  at  the  time  Gaddi  had  demanded  from  her  the  key  to  Settala's  studio, 
that  she  was  responsible  to  Lucio  alone.  Silvia  quickly  resolves  to  confront  Gioconda  at  that  place. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  third  act,  Silvia,  who  has  entered  the  studio  with  Francesca,  perceives  the 
sphynx  statue  behind  a  curtain.  The  beauty  of  the  masterpiece  draws  tears  to  her  eyes.  Gioconda 
appears.  Silvia  rebukes  her,  and  tells  her  that  her  illicit  passion  has  prompted  Lucio  to  the  attempt  at 
suicide.  Gioconda  replies  that  it  was,  on  the  contrary,  Silvia's  unremitting  fidelity  that  made  Lucio  seek 
death,  after  he  had  ascertained  that  without  Gioconda's  glorious  love  his  creative  energy  would  die  out. 
When  Silvia  exclaims  that  the  reconvalescent  Lucio  feels  no  more  the  power  of  that  passion,  Gioconda 
triumphantly  replies  that  she  has  written  to  Lucio  and  is  awaiting  his  arrival  at  this  very  hour.  In  despair, 
Silvia  now  tells  ner  that  she  has  seen  that  certain  letter,  and  that  she  has  been  commissioned  by  Lucio  to 
state  to  Gioconda  that  he  desires  to  break  all  connections  with  her,  and  does  not  want  her  to  bother  him 
any  longer.  Maddened  beyond  measure,  Gioconda  attempts  to  destroy  the  sphinx  statue,  which  the 
master  has  modeled  after  her  form,  and  wnich  is  his  pride  and  joy.  In  vain  does  Silvia  call  to  Gioconda 
that  Lucio  has  not  commissioned  her  to  state  the  above  to  her,  and  that  she  has  lied.  The  falling  statue 
strikes  Silvia,  who  tries  to  arrest  its  fall,  and  maims  both  her  hands.  Lucio,  who  visits  Gioconda,  finds 
Silvia,  who  points  out  to  him  that  through  her  sacrifice  his  masterpiece  has  been  saved. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  act  Sirenetta,  one  who  is  acquainted  with  the  water  spirits,  relates  to 
Silvia,  who  has  gradually  recovered  in  a  villa  on  the  ocean  strand,  the  story  of  the  seven  sisters  and  the 
sirens,  and  perceives?  with  horror,  when  she  attempts  to  hand  a  sea  star  to  Silvia,  that  both  hands  of  the 
unfortunate  are  missing.  Silvia  does  not  want  to  complain  in  the  presence  of  Gaddi  and  Francesca,  that  a 
happiness  is  denied  to  her  for  the  sake  of  which  she  has  even  stooped  as  low  as  to  lie,  and  that 
through  the  cruelty  of  destiny  her  sacrifice  is  in  vain.  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  statue  has  been 
saved,  Lucio  has  not  escaped  the  nemesis  of  his  life,  he  has  left  the  wife  and  has  given  himself  up  entirely 
to  Gioconda. 

Beata  once  more  sees  the  mother  who  has  been  sick  for  such  a  long  time.  The  little  one  desires  to  be 
caressed.  Silvia  draws  back  timidly,  and  utterly  collapses  after  the  child  has  seen,  with  horror,  the 
awful  maiming  of  her  hands. 

Finis. 


GIOCONDA 


BY 


GABR1ELE    D'ANNUNZIO. 


TRANSLATED    BY 


ARTHUR    SYMONS. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

LUCIO  SETTALA,  FRANCESCA  DOXI, 

LORENZO  GADDI,  .  GIOCONDA  DIAN  11 . 

COSIMO  DALBO,  LITTLE  BEATA, 

.SILVIA  SETTALA;  LA  SIRENETTA. 

At  Florence,  and  on  the  coast  of  Pisa,  at  the  present  time. 


PUBLISHED  BY  JAMES  A.  McGRATH, 
NEW  YORK. 


GIOCONDA. 


THE  FIRST  ACT. 

A  'ji/i<  t.  fourniiiiare  room,  in  ichich  the  arrange- 
ment df  eri'i-i/tliini/  indicates  a  search  after  a 
xinanlar  harmony,  revealing  the  secret  of  a  pro- 
fun  ml  correspondence  between  the  visible  lines 
mill  tin'  iiititlity  of  the  iiilialiil in;/  mind  that  has 
rliom  a  and  loved  them.  All  around  seems  to 
hare  ln'cti  set  in  order  by  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
HKIII  gli  tf  nl  (1  races.  The  aspect  of  the  place 
<  /•<,/,,  .y  i lie  image  of  a  gentle  and  secluded  life. 

! iii-iie  windows  are  open  on  the  garden 
In  in  nth;  through  one  of  them  can  be  seen,  ris- 
inii  aim  hist  the  placid  fields  of  the  sky,  the  little 
hill  (if  *an  Miniato,  and  its  bright  Basilica,  and 
the  eon  rent,  and  the  church  of  the  Cronaca,  "  la 
I!*  lln  \  il/anella,"  the  purest  vessel.  Franciscan 
aimplioity. 

Tin  re  ift  a  door  openinj  into  an  inner  room, 
another  leading  out.  It  is  the  afternoon. 
'l'lirnn</li  both  irindoics  enter  the  light,  breath, 
n ml  melody  of  April . 

I. — SILVIA  SETTALA  and  the  old  man 
LORENZO  GADDI  are  seen  on  the  threshold  of  the 
fn-fil  <l(inr.  Hide  by  side,  as  they  both  come  into 
/lie  fri'Kh  spring  atmosphere. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Ah,  blessed  be  life!  Because 
I  have  always  kept  one  hope  alight,  to-day  I  can 
Me-~  life. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  New  life,  dear  Silvia,  good 
brave  soul,  so  good  and  so  strong!  The  storm  is 
over.  Lurio  lias  come  back  to  you,  full  of  grati- 
tude and  of  tenderness,  after  all  the  evil.  It  is  as 
if  lie  were  born  again.  Just  now  he  had  the  eyes 
of  a  child. 

Si  i, VIA  SETTALA.  All  his  goodness  comes  back 
to  him  when  you  are  with  him.  When  he  calls  you 
.Mae>tn>  his  voice  becomes  so  affectionate  that  it 
n i u -I  make  your  heart  beat,  the  father's  heart  that 
you  have  for  him. 

I.OKKN/.O  GADDI.  Just  now  he  had  the  same 
e\  es  that  I  saw  in  him  when  he  came  to  me  for  the 
tir-t.  time  and  I  put  the  clay  into  his  hands.  His 
eyes  were  gentle  and  wondering;  but  from  that 
moment  his  thumb  was  full  of  energy,  a  revealing 
thing.  I  have  kept  his  first  sketch.  I  thought  of 
gh  ing  it  lo  you  on  the  day  of  your  betrothal.  I 
will  give  it  to  you  in  token  of  your  new  happiness. 

SILVIA   SKTTALA.     Thanks,  Maestro. 

Loi;i:.\/<>  GADDI.  It  is  the  head  of  a  woman 
crowned  with  laurels.  I  remember  there  was 
rather  a  bad  model  there.  As  he  worked,  he  hardly 
looked  at  her.  Sometimes  he  seemed  absorbed, 
-oine;  iineH  anxious.  There  came  out  of  his  hands 
a  sort  of  confused  mask,  through  which  one  half 
saw  I  know  not  what  heroic  lineaments.  For 
some  moments  he  remained  perplexed  and  dis- 
couraged, almost  ashamed,  at  the  sight  of  his 
work,  not  daring  to  turn  to  me.  But  suddenly, 
before  lei  ting  it  out  of  his  hands,  with  a  few 
touches  he  set  a  crown  of  laurel  about  the  head. 
How  it  delighted  me!  lie  wanted  to  crown  in  the 


clay  his  own  unaccomplished  dream.  The  end  of 
his  day's  work  was  an  act  of  pride  and  of  faith, 
I  lovea  him  from  that  instant,  for  that  crown.  I 
will  give  you  the  sketch.  Perhaps,  if  you  look  at 
it  closely,  you  will  discover  the  ardent  face  of 
Sappho,  that  ideal  figure  which,  only  a  few  years 
later,  he  was  able  to  bring  to  perfection,  in  a 
masterpiece. 

SILVIA  SETTAL'A.  (Listening  eagerly.)  Sit  down, 
sic  down,  Maestro;  stay  a  little  longer,  I  beg  of 
you.  Sit  here,  by  the  window.  Stay  a  few 
minutes  longer.  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell 
you,  and  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  one  of 
them.  If  I  could  overcome  this  continual  tremor! 
I  want  you  to  understand.  .  .  . 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Is  it  joy  that  makes  you 
tremble  ? 

(He  sits  down  near  the  window.  SILVIA, 
leaning  back  against  the  windoic-sill, 
remains  ivith  her  face  turned  towards  him; 
her  face  is  seen  against  the  blue  air,  the 
little  hill  standing  out  in  the  background. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  do  not  know  if  it  is  joy. 
Sometimes  everything  that  has  been,  all  the  evil, 
all  the  sorrow,  and  even  the  blood,  and  the  wound, 
all  melts  away,  vanishes,  is  wiped  out  into  oblivion, 
is  there  no  more.  Sometimes  everything  that  has- 
been,  all  that  horrible  weight  of  memory,  thickens 
and  thickens,  and  grows  compact  and  opaque  and 
hard  as  a  wall,  like  a  rock  that  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  surmount.  Just  now,  when  you  spoke  to 
me,  when  you  offer e"d  me  that  unexpected  gift,  I 
thought:  "Ah,  now  I  shall  take  that  gift  in  my 
hands,  that  morsel  Of  clay  into  which  he  cast  the 
first  seed  of  his  dreams  as  into  a  fruitful  soil;  I 
shall  take  it  in  my  hands,  I  shall  go  to  him  smil- 
ing, bearing  intact  the  better  part  of  his  soul  and 
of  his  life;  and  I  shall  not  speak,  and  he  will  see 
in  me  the  guardian  of  all  his  goods,  and  he  will 
never  go  away  from  me  any  more,  and  we  shall  be 
young  again,  we  shall  be  young  again!  "  I 
thought  that,  and  the  thought  and  the  act  were 
mingled  in  one,  with  an  incredible  ease.  Your 
words  transfigured  the  world.  Then,  do  you  know, 
a  breath  passed,  a  vapour,  the  merest  breathing,  a 
mere  nothing,  and  cast  down  everything,  and 
destroyed  everything,  and  the  anxiety  came  back, 
and  the  dread,  and  the  tremor.  0  April ! 

(Suddenly  she  turns  to  the  light,  draining  a 

deep  breath. 

How  this  air  (roubles  one,  and  yet  how  pure  it 
is.  All  one's  hope  and  despair  pass  in  the  wind 
with  the  dust  of  flowers.  (She  leans  out,  calling.) 
Beata !  Beata ! 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Is  the  little  one  in  the  garden? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  There  she  is,  she  is  running 
about  between  the  rose-bushes.  She  is  wild  with 
delight.  Beata!  She  has  hidden  herself  behind 
a  hedge,  the  rogue.  She  is  laughing.  Do  you  hear 
her  laughing?  Ah,  when  she  laughs,  I  know  the 
joy  of  flowers  when' they  are  filled  to  the  brim  with 
dew.  .  That  is  how  her  fresh  laughter  fills  my 
heart  to  overflowing. 


SANTA  BARBARA 


"  JL 


GIOCONDA. 


LORENZO  GADDI.  Perhaps  Lucio  too  hears  her, 
and  is  consoled. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Grave  and  trembling,  lean- 
ing towards  the  Maestro,  and  taking  his  hands. 
You  think  then  that  he  will  really  be  healed  of  all 
his  wounds?  You  think  he  will  come  back  to  me 
with  all  his  soul?  Did  you  feel  that,  when  you 
saw  him,  when  you  talked  with  him?  What  did 
your  heart  say? 

LORENZO  GADDI.  It  seemed  to  me,  just  now,  that 
he  had  the  look  of  a  hian  who  begins  to  live  over 
again  with  a  new  sense  of  life.  He  who  has  seen 
the  face  of  death  cannot  but  have  seen  in  that 
in>;ant  the  face  of  truth  also.  The  bandage  is 
taken  off  his  eyes.  He  knows  you  now  wholly. 

SILVIA     SETTALA.     Maestro.     Maestro,     if    you 
deceive  yourself,  if   it  is  a  vain  hope,  what  will 
become  of  me?     All  my  strength  is  worn  out. 
LORENZO  GADDI.     But  what  is  there  now  to  fear  ? 
SILVIA    SETTALA.     He   wanted   to   die;    but   the 
Htlx'i;  the  other  woman  lives,  and  I  know  that  she 
is  implacable. 

LORENZO  GADDI.     And  what  could  she  do  now? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     She  could  dp  anything,  if  she 
were  still  loved. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Still  loved  ?  Beyond  death  ? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  Beyond  death.  Ah,  if  you 
knew  my  anguish!  It  was  for  her  that  he  wanted 
to  die.  in  a  moment  of  rage  and  of  delirium. 
Think  how  he  must  have  loved  her,  if  the  thought 
of  me.  if  the  thought  of  Beata,  could  not  restrain 
him!  Then,  in  that  awful  moment,  he  was  her 
prey  wholly:  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  fever,  of 
his  agony,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  blotted 
out.  Think  how  he  must  have  loved  her! 

( The  woman's  voice  is  subdued  but  lacerating. 

The  old  man  bows  his  head. 

Now,  who  can  say  what  took  place  in  him,  after 
the  blow,  when  the  mist  of  death  passed  before 
his  soul?  Has  he  awakened  without  memory? 
Does  he  see  an  abyss  between  his  life  as  it  renews 
itself  and  the  part  of  himself  that  he  left  behind  in 
that  mist?  Or  else,  or  else  the  image  has  arisen- 
again  out  of  the  depths,  and  remains  there, 
against  the  shadow,  dominant,  in  indestructible 
relief?  Tell  me! 

LORENZO  GADDI.      (Perplexed.)      Who  can  say? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.      (In  a  sorrowful  voice.)     Ah, 
now  you  yourself  dare  not  console  me  any  longer. 
Then,  it  is  so?     There  is  no  help? 

LORENZO  GADDI.  ( Talcing  her  hands. )  No,  no, 
Silvia.  I  meant :  who  can  say  what  change  is 
brought  about  in  a  nature  like  his  by  so  mys- 
terious a  force?  Everything  in  him  speaks  of 
some  new  good  thing  that  has  come  to  him.  Look 
at  him  when  he  smiles.  Just  now,  yonder,  before 
you  left  him  to  come  out  with  me,  when  he  kissed 
those  dear  hands  of  yours,  did  you  not  feel  that 
his  whole  heart  melted  into  tenderness  and 
humility?. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Her  face  slightly  flushed.) 
Yes.  it  is  true. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  (Looking  at  her  hands.) 
Dear,  dear  hands,  brave  and  beautiful,  steadfast 
and  beautiful !  \rour  hands  are  extraordinarily 
beautiful,  Silvia.  If  sorrow  has  too  often  set 
them  together,  it  has  sublimated  them  also,  per- 
fected them.  They  are  perfect.  Do  you  remember 
the  woman  of  Verrocchio,  the  woman  with  the 
bunch  of  flowers,  with  the  clustering  hair?  Ah, 
she  is  there! 


(He   pen-circs,   from    the   look   and   smile   of 
SILVIA,  that  there  is  a  copy  of  the  bust  on 
a  little  cupboard  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 
So   you    have   realised   the   relationship.     Those 
two  hands  seem  of  the  same  blood  as  yours,  they 
are  of  the  same  essence.    They  live — do  they  not  ? — 
with  so  luminous  a  life  that  the  rest  of  the  figure 
is  darkened  by  them. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Smiling.)  Oh,  young,  always 
young  in  soul ! 

LORENZO  GADDI.  When  Lucio  comes  back  to  his 
work,  he  ought  to  model  your  hands  the  first  day. 
I  have  a  fragment  of  ancient  marble,  found  in  the 
Oricellari  Gardens.  I  will  give  it  to  him,  that  he 
may  chisel  them  in  that,  and  lay  them  up  like  a 
votive  offering. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (A  cloud  passing  across  her 
forehead.)  Do  you  think  he  will  come  back  to  his 
work  soon?  Will  he  wish  to?  Have  you  spoken 
of  it  with  him  ? 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Yes,  just  now,  when  you  were 
not  there. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  What  did  he  say? 
LORENZO  GADDI.  Vague,  delicious  things,  a 
convalescent's  dreams.  I  know  them.  I  too  was 
once  ill.  It  seems  to  him  now  as  if  he  has  lost 
hold  of  his  art,  as  if  he  had  no  longer  any  power 
over  it,  as  if  he  had  become  a  stranger  to  beauty. 
Then  again  it  seems  to  him  as  if  his  thumbs  had 
assumed  a  magic  force,  and  tnat  at  a  mere  touch 
he  can  evoke  forms  out  of  the  clay  as  easily  as  in 
dreams.  He  is  somewhat  uneasy  about  the  dis- 
order in  which  he  fancies  his  studio  was  left,  on 
the  Mugnone  yonder.  He  asked  me  to  go  and  see. 
Have  you  the  key? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Anxiously.)  there  is  the 
caretaker. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  How  long  is  it  since  vou  were 
there  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Since  this  began.  I  never 
had  the  courage  to  go  back  again.  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  see  the  stains  of  blood,  and  find  traces  of 
her  everywhere.  She  is  still  mistress  there.  That 
place  is  still  her  domain. 

LORENZO  GADDI.     The  domain  of  a  statue. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     No,  no.    Do  you  not  know  that 
she  had  a  key?     She  came  and  went  there  as  if  it 
belonged  to  her.    Ah,  I  have  told  you,  I  have  told 
you ;   she  lives,  and  is  implacable. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Are  you  sure  that  she  came 
back,  after  what  happened? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Sure.     Her  insolence  has  no 
bounds.     She  is  without  pity  and  without  shame. 
LORENZO  GADDI.     And  he,  Lucio,  does  he  know? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     He  does  not  know.     But  he 
will  surely  know  it  sooner  or  later.     She  will  find 
a  way  of  letting  him  know. 
LORENZO  GADDI.     But  why? 
SILVIA    SETTALA.     Because    she    is    implacable, 
because  she  will  not  relinquish  her  prey. 

(A    pause.      The    old    man    is    silent.      Th<3 
icoman's  voice  becomes  harsh  and  tremulous. 
And  the  status,  the  Sphinx,  have  you  seen  it? 

LORENZO  GADDI.  (After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion.) Yes.  I  have  seen  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Was  it  he  who  showed  it  to 
you  ? 

LORENZO    GADDI.     Yes,    one    day    last    October. 

He  had  just  finished  it.  (A  pause. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.      (In  a  trembling  voice,  which 

almost   fails   her.)      It   is   wonderful,   is   it   not? 

Tell  me. 

LORENZO  GADDI.     Yes,  it  is  exquisitely  beautiful. 


GIOCONDA. 


SILVIA  SETTALA.     For  eternity. 
;         1.1   pause,   burdened   with  a   thousand  unde- 
fined and  inevitable  things. 

THE  VOICE  OF  BEATA.  (From  the  garden.) 
.Mamma!  Mamma! 

LORENZO  GADDI.     The  child  is  calling  you. 

SILVIA  SKTTALA.  (Starting  up,  and  leaning  out 
of  the  11-iniloic.)  Beata!  Ah,  there  she  is;  my 
sister  Francesca  is  coming  across  the  garden;  she 
is  coming  here  with  Cosimo  Dalbo.  Do  you  know? 
Cosimo  has  returned  from  Cairo;  he  arrived  at 
Florence  last  night.  Lucio  will  be  delighted  to  see 
him. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  (Rising  to  go.)  Good-bye,  then, 
dear  Silvia:  I  shall  see  you  perhaps  to-morrow. 

SILVIA.  SETTALA.  Stay  a  little  longer.  My  sis- 
ter would  like  to  see  you. 

LORENZO  GADDI.     I  must  go.    I  am  late  now. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  When  shall  I  have  the  gift 
you  promised  me? 

LOKKXZO  GADDI.     Perhaps  to-morrow. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  No  perhaps,  no  perhaps.  I 
shall  expect  you.  You  must  come  here  often,vevery 
day.  Your  presence  does  us  good.  Do  not  for- 
Kike  me.  I  trust  in  you,  Maestro.  Remember  that 
a  menace  is  still  hanging  over  my  head. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Do  not  fear.  Keep  up  your 
courage  ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Moving  towards  the  door.) 
Here  is  Francesca. 


II.  —  FRANCESCA  DONI  enters,  goes  up  to  her 

niftier,  and  embraces  her.     COSIMO  DALBO,  icho 

fttlloirft  her,  shakes  hands  icith  LORENZO  GADDI, 

If  ho  is  on  the  point  of  going  out. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Do  you  see  whom  I  am  bring- 
ing? We  met  outside  the  gate.  How  are  you, 
^lacstro?  Are  you  going  just  as  I  come  in?  (She 
shake*  /Hindu  icith  the  old  man.) 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Holding  out  her  hand  cor- 
dialli/.)  Welcome  back,  Dalbo.  We  were  expect- 
ing you.  Liicio  is  impatient  to  see  you. 

CM-  i  MO  DALISO.  (\\'ilh  affectionate  solicitude.) 
How  i-  hr  HOW?  Is  he  up?  Is  he  quite  well? 

SIIAIA  SETTALA.  He  is  convalescent;  still  a 
little  weak;  but  getting  stronger  every  day.  The 
wound  is  entirely  closed.  You  will  see  him  in  a 
minute.  The  doctor  is  with  him;  I  will  go  and 
tell  him  you  are  here.  It  will  be  a  great  delight 
for  him.  lie  has  asked  after  you  several  times 
to-day.  He  is  impatient  to  see  you.  (She  turns  to 
Loi::.\/o  GADDI.)  To-morrow,  then. 

i  she  r/o<.s-  mil  icith  a  light  and  rapid  step. 
'/'lie  .s-/.s-/rr,  the  MAESTRO,  and  the  friend  fol- 
loi<-  In  r  irilli  her  eyes. 

|'I:AM  S(A  DOM.  Ill'///;  a  kindly  smile.) 
I'IHT  Silvia!  For  the  last  few  days,  *he  seems  as 
if  -he  hud  wings.  When  I  look  at  her  sometimes, 
it  -eein>  to  me  as  if  she  is  going  to  take  flight 
toward-  happiness.  And  no,  one  deserves  happi- 
ness  more:  is  it  not  true.  Maestro?  You  know  her. 

Loi!  ;\/.o  CADDI.  Yes.  she  is  really  as  your 
H-torlv  eyes  see  her.  She  comes  winged  out  of 
her  martyrdom.  There  is  a  sort  of^  incessant 
quiver  in  'her.  I  felt  it  just  now,  when  she  stood 
near  me.  Truly  she  is  in  a  state  of  grace.  There 
is  no  height  to  which  she  could  not  attain.  Lucio 
lias  in  his  hands  a  life  of  flame,  an  infinite  force. 

FHANCKSC'A  DONI.  You  were  with  him  some 
time  to-day. 

LORK.N/O  G/DDf.     Yes.  hours. 

IM:\\CI:SCA  Doxi.     How  was  he? 

LORENZO  GADDI.     Running  over  with  sweetness, 


and  a  little  bewildered.  You  will  see  him  pres- 
ently, Dalbo.  His  sensitiveness  is  a  danger.  Those 
who  love  him  can  do  him  much  good  and  much 
harm.  A  word  agitates  and  convulses  him. 
Watch  over  all  your  words,  you  who  love  him. 
Good-bye.  I  must  go.  (Takes  leave  of  them  both.) 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Good-bye,  Maestro.  Per- 
haps we  shall  see  you  here  again  to-morrow.  I 
hope  so.  You  have  a  horror  of  my  stairs ! 

(She  accompanies  the  old  man  to  the  door; 
then  returns  to  the  friend. 

What  a  fire  of  intelligence  and  of  goodness,  in 
that  old  man!  WThen  he  comes  into  a  room  he 
seems  to  bring  comfort  to  all.  The  sad  rejoice  and 
the  merry  become  fervent. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  He  inspires  the  soul ;  he  belongs 
to  the  noblest  race  of  mankind.  His  work  is  a  con- 
tinual exaltation  of  life ;  it  is  the  continual  force 
of  communicating  a  spark,  whether  to  his  statues 
or  to  the  creatures  whom  he  meets  by  the  way. 
Lorenzo  Gaddi  seems  to  me  to  deserve  a  far  higher 
fame  than  he  receives  from  his  contemporaries. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  It  is  true,  it  is  true.  If 
you  knew  what  energy  and  what  delicacy  he 
showed,  in  that  horrible  affair !  When  the  thing 
happened,  my  sister  was  not  there ;  she  was  with 
our  mother,  at  Pisa,  with  Beata.  The  thing  hap- 
pened in  the  studio,  there,  on  the  Mugnone,  in 
the  evening.  Only  the  caretaker  heard  the  report. 
When  he  discovered  the  truth,  he  ran  to  tell 
Lorenzo  Gaddi  before  any  one  else.  In  the 
anguish  and  horror  of  that  winter  evening,  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  confusion  and  uncertainty,  he 
alone  never  lost  his  presence  of  mind,  nor  had  a 
single  instant's  hesitation.  He  preserved  a  strange 
lucidity,  by  which  every  one  was  dominated.  He 
made  every  arrangement:  all  obeyed  him.  It  was 
he  who  had  poor  Lucio  brought  to  the  house  here, 
half  dead.  The  doctor  despaired  of  saving  him. 
He  alone  declared,  with  an  obstinate  faith:  "No, 
he  will  not  die,  he  will  not  die,  he  cannot  die." 
I  believed  him.  Ah,  what  a  heroic  night,  Dalbo. 
And  then  the  arrival  of  Silvia,  his  telling  her 
himself,  forbidding  her  to  enter  the  room  where  a 
mere  breath  might  have  quenched  that  glimmer  of 
life:  and  her  strength,  her  incredible  endurance 
under  watching  and  waiting  for  whole  weeks,  the 
proud  and  silent  vigilance  with  which  she  guarded 
the  threshold  as  if  to  hinder  the  coming  of  death ! 

COSIMO  DALBO.  And  I  was  far  away,  uncon- 
scious of  all.  blissfully  idle  in  a  boat  on  the  Nile! 
Y'et  I  had-  a  kind  of  presentiment,  before  leaving. 
That  was  why  I  tried  every  means  to  persuade 
Lucio  to  go  with  me.  as  we  had  often  dreamed  of 
doing  together.  He  had  then  finished  his  statue; 
and  I  thought  that  his  liberty  was  in  that  wonder- 
ful marble.  He  said,  "Not  yet!"  And  a  few 
months  after  he  was  seeking  it  in  death.  Ah,  if  I 
had  not  gone  away,  if  1  had  stayed  by  him,  if  I  had 
been  more  faithful,  if  I  had  known  how  to  defend 
him  against  the  enemy,  nothing  would  have 
happened. 

FIIANC  SCA  Doxi.  There  is  nothing  to  regret 
it  80  much  good  can  come  out  of  so  much  evil. 
\Vho  knows  in  what  sadness  of  despair  my  sister 
might  have  perished,  if  the  violence  of  that  act 
had  not  suddenly  reunited  her  to  Lucio!  But  dr 
not  think  that  the  enemy  has  laid  down  arms.  She 
has  not  abandoned  the  field. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Who?     Gioconda  Dianti? 

FRANCKSCA    DONI.      (Motioning    to    him    to    be 
.  dud  loin  rimj  her  voice.)     Do  not  say  that 
name  ! 


GIOCONDA. 


SCKXE  III. — Lucio  SETTALA  appears  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  dear,  li'iiniiig  on  the  arm  of  SILVIA; 
IK-  ifi  pale  and  thin,  and  his  eyes  look  extraordi- 
narily large  icith  suffering:  a  faint,  sweet  smile 
f/irrs  refinement  to  a  voluptuous  mouth. 
Lucio  SETTALA.  Cosimo! 

COSIMO  DALBO.  (Turning  and  running  up  to 
lit  in.)  Oh,  Lucio,  dear,  dear  friend! 

(  lie  /nits  his  firms  about  the  convalescent, 
ir/iile  SILVIA  moves  aside,  nearer  to  her  sis- 
ter, and  goes  out  with  her.  slowly,  pausing 
for  a  moment  to  look  at  her  husband  before 
going. 

You  are  well  again,  are  you  not?  You  are  not 
suiK-ring  now?  I  find  you  a  little  pale,  a  little 
thin,  but  not  so  very  much.  You  look  as  I  have 
seen  you  sometimes  after  a  period  of  feverish  work, 
•when  you  have  been  with  your  clay  for  twelve 
hours  a  day,  consumed  with  that  fire.  Do  you 
remember  ? 

Lucio    SETTALA.      (Looking    confusedly    about 
lii in.  to  see  if  SILVIA  is  still  in  the  room.)     Yes,  yes. 
COSIMO  DALBO.     Then    too    your    eyes    looked 
larger.  .  .  . 

Li'cio  SETTALA.     ( With  an  indefinable,  almost 
i-fii  Irtish    rt'fttlcssnrss.)       And    Silvia?      Where    is 
Silvia  gone?  Wasn't  she  here  with  Francesca? 
COSIMO  DALBO.     They  have  left  us  alone. 
Lucio     SETTALA.     Why?        She     thinks     per- 
haps. .  .  .      No,    I    have   nothing    to   tell   you,    I 
know  nothing  now  any  more.     Perhaps  you  know. 
For  me,  no ;   I  don't  remember.     I  don't  want  to 
remember.      Tell    me    about    yourself!      Tell    me 
about  yourself!     Is  the  desert  beautiful? 

( He  speaks  in  a  singular  way,  as  if  in  a 
dream,  with  a  mixture  of  agitation  and 
stupor. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  I  will  tell  you.  But  you  must 
not  tire  yourself.  I  will  tell  you  all  my  pilgrim- 
age; I  will  come  here  every  day,  if  I  may;  I  will 
May  with  you  as  long  as  you  like,  only  not  long 
enough  to  tire  you.  Sit  here. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Smiling.)  ^  Do  you  think  I 
am  so  feeble? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Xo,  you  are  all  right  now,  but 

it  is  better  for  you  not  to  tire  yourself.     Sit  here. 

(He  makes  him  sit  down  near  the  window, 

and  looks  out  at  the  hill  clearly  outlined 

against  the  April  sky. 

Ah,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  seen  marvellous 
things  with  these  eyes,  and  they  have  drunk  light 
in  comparison  with  which  this  seems  ashen ;  but, 
when  I  see  again  a  simple  line  like  that  (look  at 
San  Miniato!)  I  seem  to  find  myself  again,  after 
an  interval  of  wandering.  Look  at  that  dear  hill ! 
The  pyramid  of  Cheops  does  not  make  one  forget 
the  Bella  Villanella ;  and  more  than  once,  in  the 
gardens  of  Koubbeh  and  Gizeh,  hives  of  honey, 
chewing  a  grain  of  resin,  I  thought  of  a  slim  Tus- 
can cypress  on  the  edge  of  a  narrow  grove  of  olives. 
Lucio  SETTALA.  (Half  closing  his  eyelids 
under  the  breath  of  Spring.)  It  is  good  to  be  here, 
is  it  not?  There  is  an  odour  of  violets.  Perhaps 
there  is  a  bunch  of  violets  in  the  room.  Silvia  puts 
them  everywhere,  even  under  my  pillow. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Do  you  know,  I  have  brought 
you  the  violets  of  the  desert,  between  the  pages  of 
a  Koran.  I  gathered  them  in  the  garden  of  a  Per- 
sian monastery,  near  the  Thebaid,  on  the  side  of 
the  Mokattam,  on  an  eminence  of  sand.  There,  in 
a  cavern  dug  out  of  the  mountain,  covered  with 
carpets  and  cushions,  the  monks  offer  their  visitors 


a  tea  with  a  special  flavour,  Arab  tea,  perfumed 
with  violets. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  And  you  have  brought  them 
for  me.  buried  in  a  book !  How  happy  you  were  to 
be  able  to  gather  them,  so  far  away;  and  I  might 
have  been  with  you. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  There,  all  was  oblivion.  I  went 
up  by  a  long,  straight  stone  staircase,  that  leads 
from  the  foot  of  the  mountain  to  the  gate  of  the 
Bectaschiti.  The  desert  was  all  about;  vast,  hallu- 
cinating dryness,  in  which  there  was  no  life  but 
the  stirring  of  wind  and  the  quivering  of  heat.  I 
could  only  distinguish  here  and  there,  between  the 
sand-heaps,  the  white  stones  of  Arab  cemeteries. 
1  heard  the  crying  of  hawks  high  up  in  the  sky.  I 
saw  on  the  Nile  multitudes  of  boats  with  great 
lateen  sail,  white,  slow,  going  on,  going  on,  lik« 
snow-flakes.  And  little  by  little  I  was  caught  up 
into  an  ecstasy  that  you  can  never  have  known, 
the  ecstasy  of  light. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (In  a  far  off  voice.)  And  I 
might  have  been  with  you,  loitering,  forgetting, 
dreaming,  drunk  with  light.  You  went  down  the 
Nile,  did  you  not?  in  an  ancient  boat  loaded  with 
wine-skins,  sacks,  and  cages.  You  landed  on  an 
island  towards  evening;  you  were  dressed  in  white 
serge;  you  were  thirsty;  you  drank  at  a  spring,; 
you  walked  barefoot  upon  flowers ;  and  the  odour 
Xvas  so  strong  that  you  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
hunger.  Ah,  I  thought,  I  felt,  these  things  from 
my  pillow.  And  I  followed  you  through  the 
desert,  when  the  fever  was  at  its  height;  through  a 
desert  of  red  sand,  sown  with  glittering  stones  that 
splintered  crackling  like  twigs  in  the  fire. 

(A  pause.  He  leans  foncard  a  little,  saying 
in  a  clear  voice  and  with  open  eyes: 

And  the  Sphinx? 

Cosmo  DALBO.  I  saw  it  first  at  night,  by  the 
light  of  stars,  sunken  into  the  sand  that  still  keep* 
the  violent  imprint  of  whirlwinds.  The  face  and 
the  croup  rose  out  of  that  quieted  storm,  all  that 
was  human  and  all  that  was  bestial  in  it.  The 
face,  whose  mutilations  were  hidden  by  the  shadow, 
seemed  to  me  at  that  moment  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful :  calm,  august,  cerulean  as  the  night,  almost 
meek.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world,  Lucio,  so 
much  alone  as  that;  but  my  mind  was,  as  it  were, 
before  multitudes  who  had  slept,  and  on  whose 
eyelashes  the  dew  had  fallen.  Then  I  saw  it  again 
by  day.  The  face  was  bestial,  like  the  croup;  the 
nose  and  throat  were  eaten  away;  the  drop- 
pings of  birds  fouled  the  fillets.  It  was  the  heavy 
wingless  monster  imagined  by  the  excavators  of 
tombs,  by  the  embalmers  of  corpses.  And  I  saw, 
in  the  sun  before  me,  your  Sphinx,  pure  And 
imperious,  with  wings  imprisoned  alive  in  the 
shoulders. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (With  a  sudden  emotion.) 
My  statue?  You  mean  my  statue?  You  saw  it; 
ah,  yes.  before  you  went;  and  you  found  it 
beautiful. 

(He  looks  uneasily  towards  the  door,  fearing 
SILVIA    might    hear    him,    and    lowers    hi& 
voice. 
You  found  it  beautiful? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Exquisitely  beautiful. 

(Lucio  covers  his  eyes  with  both  hands  and 
remains  for  some  seconds  as  if  trying  to 
evoke  a  vision  in  the  darkness. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Uncovering  his  eyes.)  I  no 
longer  see  it.  It  escapes  me.  It  comei  and  goen  in 
a  breath  confusedly.  If  I  had  it  here  before  me 


GIOCONDA. 


no\v  it  would  seem  new  to  ine:  I  should  cry  out. 
And  yet  I  carved  it,  with  these  hands! 

(He  looks  at  his  thin,  sensitive  hands.  His 
agitation  increases. 

I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  In  the  beginning 
of  my  fever,  when  I  still  had  the  bullet  in  my  flesh, 
and  the  continual  murmuring  of  death  in  my  lost 
soul,  I  saw  it  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  lit 
like  a  torch,  as  if  I  myself  had  moulded  it  out  of 
some  incandescent  material.  So  for  many  days 
and  nights  I  saw  it  through  my  eyelids.  It  grew 
brighter  as  my  fever  increased.  When  my  pulse 
burned  it  turned  to  flame.  It  was  as  if  all  the 
blood  shed  at  its  feet  had  gone  up  into  it  and  boiled 
up  in  it  ... 

COSIMO  DALBO.  ( Uneasily,  looking  towards  the 
door,  irith  the  same  fear.)  Lucio,  Lucio,  you  said 
just  now  that  you  knew  nothing  now,  that  you 
did  not  want  to  remember  anything.  Lucio! 

( He  gently  shakes  his  friend,  who  remains 
rigid. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Recollecting  himself.)  Do 
not  fear.  I  have  left  it  all  far,  far  behind  me,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The  statue  was  drowned  too, 
with  all  the  rest,  after  the  shipwreck.  That  is 
why  I  can  no  longer  see  it  except  confusedly,  as  if 
through  deep  water. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  It  alone  shall  be  saved,  to  live 
for  ever :  and  so  much  sorrow  shall  not  have  been 
Buffered  in  vain,  so  much  evil  shall  not  have  been 
useless,  if  one  thing  so  beautiful  remains  over,  to 
be  added  to  the  ornament  of  life. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Smiling  again  with  his  faint 
smile  and  speaking  in  his  far-off  voice.)  It  is 
true.  I  sometimes  think  of  the  fate  of  one  whose 
ship  and  all  that  was  in  it  went  down  in  a  storm. 
On  a  day  as  calm  as  this,  he  took  a  boat  and  a 
net,  and  he  returned  to  the  place  of  the  shipwreck, 
hoping  to  draw  something  up  out  of  the  depths. 
And,  after  much  labour,  he  drew  on  shore  a 
statue.  And  the  staitue  was  so  beautiful  that  he 
wept  for  joy  to  see  it  again;  and  he  sat  down  on 
the  seashore  to  gaze  upon  it,  and  was  content  with 
that  gain,  and  would  seek  after  nothing  more: 
"well,  I  forget  the  rest!"  (He  rises  hastily. 

Why  has  not  Silvia  come  back?  (He  listens. 

Who  is  laughing?  Ah,  it  is  Beata  in  the  garden. 
Look:  San  M  in  in  to  is  all  gold;  it  lightens.  Is 
there  a  more  glorious  light  at  Thebes? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  The  ecstasy  of  light.  I  told 
you:  you  can  know  it  nowhere  else.  Circles,  gar- 
lands, wheels,  roses  of  splendour,  innumerable 
sparkles.  .  .  The  verses  of  the  IJaradiso  recur  to 
one's  mind.  Only  Dante  has  found  dazzling  words. 
In  cert ;i in  In. ins  the  Nile  becomes  the  flood  of 
topazes,  tin-  "marvelous  gulf."  Like  a  stone  in 
water,  a  gesture  in  the  air  -arouses  thousands  and 
thousands  of  waves.  All  things  swim  in  light; 
all  the  leaves  drip  with  it.  The  women,  who  pass 
along  the  strciim  with  full  wine-skins,  actually 
flame  like  the  angelic  host  in  the  song/'distinct  in 
light  ami  form." 

I  Lino,  i-iilfliing  sight  of  a  bunch  of  violets 
on  tin'  Idhli .  III/.TN  tin-in  n/>  and  buries  his 
/'"'••  ///  /In  in.  In  ilrinl:  in  their  odour. 

LUCIO    SMIAI.A.      (,s'/i//   lutliling   the  violets   to. 
///.s-  ;/o.v/r/7.s-  ti ml  Inil  f -cloni  IKJ  lii*  i-i/rn  irith  delight.) 
An-  the  women  of  the   Nile  beautiful? 

<  HMMO  DAI.MO.  Some,  in  youth,  have  bodies  of 
marvellon^  purity  and  elegance.  You.  who  like 
firm  anil  active  nmseles.  a  Certain  acerbity  in  form, 
long,  nervous  logs,  would  find  incomparable  models 
there.  How  often  have  1  thought  of  you!  In 


the  island  of  Elephantina,  I  had  a  little  friend  of 
fourteen :  a  girl  golden  as  a  date,  thin,  lithe,  firm, 
with  strong,  arched  loins,  straight,  strong  legs, 
perfect  knees;  a  very  rare  thing,  as  you  know. 
In  all  that  hard  slenderness,  which  gave  one  the 
impression  of  a  javelin,  sharp  and  precise,  three 
things  delighted  me  with  their  infinitely  soft 
grace:  the  mouth,  the  shadow  of  the  eyelashes, 
the  tips  of  the  fingers.  She  braided  her  hair  with 
fingers  rosy-tipped  like  petals  dyed  with  purple: 
and  to  watch  her  in  that  act,  on  the  -threshold  of 
her  white  house,  was  the  delight  of  my  mornings. 
I  should  like  to  have  taken  her  away  with  the 
statuettes,  the  scarabaei,  the  cloths,  the  tobacco, 
the  scents,  the  weapons.  I  have  brought  you  a 
beautiful  bow  that  I  bought  at  Assouan,  and  that 
is  a  little  like  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (With  a  slight  perturbation, 
throwing  back  his  head.)  She  must  have  been 
a  delicious  creature! 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Delicious  and  harmless.  She 
was  like  a  beautiful  bow,  but  her  arrows  were 
without  venom. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     You  loved  her? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  As  I  love  my  horse  and  my 
dogs.  , 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Ah,  you  were  happy  there: 
your  life  was  light  and  easy.  ,  It  must  have  been 
the  island  of  Elephantina  where  I  saw  you  come 
on  shore,  in  a  dream.  I  might  have  been  with 
you !  But  I  will  go,  I  will  leave  here.  Do  you 
not  long  to  return?  I  will  have  a  white  house 
on  the  Nile;  I  will  make  my  statues  with  the 
slime  of  the  river,  and  set  them  up  in  that  light 
of  yours  that  will  turn  them  to  gold  for  me. 
Silvia!  Silvia! 

(He  calls  towards  the  door  as  if  seised  by  a 
sudden  impatience,  an  anxious  will  to  lin. 
Would  it  be  too  late? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  It  is  too  late.  The  great  heats 
are  coming  on. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  What  does  it  matter?  I  love 
summer  heat,  sultriness  even.  All  the  pome- 
granates will  be  in  flower  in  the  gardens,  and 
when  it  rains  they  will  see  those  large,  warm 
drops  that  make  the  earth  sigh  for  pleasure. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  But  the  Khamsin?  when  all 
the  desert  rises  up  against  the  sun? 

( SILVIA  appears  on  the  threshold,  s:nilin</. 
her  whole  being  visibly  animated.  She  has 
changed  her  gown;  she  is  dressed  in  <i 
clearer,  more  spring-like  colour;  and  she 
curries  in  her  hands  a  bunch  of  fresh  roses. 

S  M. VTA  SETTALA.  What  do  you  say,  Dalbo, 
against  the  sun?  Did  you  call,  Lucio? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  ( Retaken  by  a  kind  of  rest- 
/r.s.s-  ti/niility,  as  of  a  man  who  feels  the  need  of 
self -abandonment,  to  which  he  dares  not  give 
irni/.)  \es,  I  called  you,  because  I  thought  you 
were  never  coining  back.  Cosimo  was  telling  me 
of  so  many  beautiful  things.  I  wanted  you  to 
hear  them  too. 

(He   looks  <tt    ///.s>   irife  witji  surprise  in   ///•«•• 
1'i/i-H,  as  if  he  discovered  a  new  charm  in 
her. 
Were  you  going  out? 

SILVIA  8ETTALA..  i  /Hushing  slightly.)  Ah,  you 
are  looking  at  my  gown.  I  put  it  on  to  see  how 
it  looked,  while  Francesca  was  there.  My  sister 
sends  her  apologies  to  you  both  for  having  gone 
without  coming  to  say  good-bye.  She  was  in  a 
hurry:  her  children  were  waiting  for  her.  She 


GIOCONDA. 


"hopes,    DalbOj   that   you   will    come   and   see   her 
-soon.  (She  puts  the  roses  on  a  table. 

\\i\\  you  dine  with  us  to-night? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Thanks.  I  cannot  to-night. 
My  mother  expects  me. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.    Naturally.    To-morrow,  then? 

Cosmo  DALBO.  To-morrow.  I  will  bring  my 
presents  for  you,  Lucio. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (With  childish  curiosity.) 
Yes,  yes,  bring  them,  bring  them. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Smiling  mysteriously.)  I 
too  am  to  have  a  present  to-morrow. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     From  whom? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     From  the  Maestro. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     What? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     You  shall  see. 

Lrcio  SETTALA.  (With  a  joyous  movement.) 
Y'ou  too  shall  see  all  the  beautiful  things  that 
"Cosimo  has  brought  me:  cloths,  scents,  weapons, 
scarabaM.  .  .  . 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Amulets  against  every  evil, 
talismans  for  happiness.  On  Gebel-el-Tair,  in  a 
'Coptic  convent,  I  found  the  most  powerful  of 
«carabsei.  The  monk  told  me  a  long  story  of  a 
•cenobite  wlio,  at  the  time  of  the  first  persecution, 
took  refuge  in  a  vault,  and  found  a  mummy  there, 
and  took  it  out  of  its  swathings  of  balm,  and 
restored  it  to  life,  and  the  resuscitated  mummy, 
with  its  painted  lips,  told  him  the  story  of  its 
old  life,  which  hau  been  one  whole  tissue  of  happi- 
ness. In  the  end,  as  the  cenobite  wished  to  convert 
it,  it  preferred  to  lie  down  again  in  its  embalm- 
ings: but  first  it  gave  him  the  guardian  scarabseus. 
To  tell  you  what  use  was  made  of  it  by  the  soli- 
tary, and  through  what  vicissitudes  it  passed 
across  the  centuries  into  the  hands  of  the  good 
•Copt,  would  take  too  long.  Certainly,  a  more 
powerful  one  is  not  in  all  Egypt.  Here  it  is:  I 
offer  it  to  you.  I  offer  it  to  you  both. 

(He  hands  the  amulet  to  SILVIA,  who  exam- 
ines it  carefully  and  then  passes  it  to 
Lvcio,  with  a  sudden  light  in  her  eyes. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  How  blue  it  is.  It  is  brighter 
than  a  turquoise.  Look. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  The  Copt  said  to  me:  "Small 
.as  a  gnu.  great  as  a  destiny!" 

(Lucio   turns   the   mystic  stone  "between   his 

fingers,  ichich  tremble  a  little  fumblingly. 
^Good-bye  then;   to-morrow!     Good-night. 

SILVIA  S>:TTALA.  (Picking  a  rose  out  of  the 
bunch  and  offering  it  to  him.)  Here  is  a  fresh 
rose  in  exchange  for  the  amulet.  Take  it  to  your 
mother. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Thanks.  To-morrow!  (He 
£alut<N  them  again  and  goes  out. 

SCENE  IV. — Lucio  SETTALA  smiles  timidly,'  turn- 
ing the  scarab(cus  between  his  fingers,  ivhile 
SILVIA  puts  the  roses  in  a  vase.  Both,  in  the 
xi/i  >><•! •.  h<u r  the  beating  of  their  anxious  hearts. 
The  sttting  sun  gilds  the  room.  In  the  square 
of  the  window  is  seen  the  pallid  sky;  San 
Mia i« to  shines  on  the  height;  the  air  is  soft, 
without  a  breath  of  wind. 
Lucio  SETTALA.  (Looking  into  the  air,  and 

lis/iniiig  ini.eioufilif.)  There  is  a  bee  in  the  room. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Raising  her  head.)  A  bee? 
Lucio  SETTALA.  Yes.  Don't  you  hear  it? 

(Both  listen  to  the  murmur. 
SILVIA   SETTALA.     You  are  right. 
Lucio    SETTALA.     Perhaps    you    brought    it    in 

vith  the  roses. 

SILVIA   SETTALA.     Beata   picked   these. 


Lucio  SETTALA.  I  heard  her  laughing,  just 
now,  down  in  the  garden. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  How  pleased  she  is  to  be 
home  again ! 

Lucio  SETTALA.  It  was  a  good  thing  to  send 
her  away  then. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  She  is  stronger  and  lovelier 
for  having  breathed  the  odour  of  the  pines.  How 
good  the  spring  must  be  at  Bocca  d'Arno!  Would 
you  not  like  to  go  there  for  a  while? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  There,  by  the  sea.  .  .  .  Would 
you  like  it? 

(Their  voices  are  altered  by  a  slight  tremor. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  It  has  always  been  a  dream 
of  mine  to  pass  one  spring  there. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Choked  with  emotion.)  Your 
dream  is  mine,  Silvia. 

( The  amulet  falls  from  his  hands. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Stooping  quickly  to  pick  it 
up.)  Ah,  you  have  let  it  fall!  They  would  say 
it  is  a  bad  omen.  See.  I  put  it  on  Beata's  head. 
"  Small  as  a  gem,  great  as  a  destiny!" 

(She  lays  the  amulet  delicately  upon  the  roses. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Holding  out  his  hands  to 
her,  as  if  imploring.)  Silvia!  Silvia! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Running  to  him.)  Do  you 
feel  ill?  You  look  paler.  Ah,  you  have  tired 
yourself  too  much  to-day,  you  are  worn  out.  Sit 
here,  come.  Will  you  sip  some  of  this  cordial? 
Do  you  feel  as  if  you  are  going  to  faint?  Tell  me! 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Taking  her  hands  with  an 
outburst  of  love.)  No,  no,  Silvia;  I  never  felt  so 
well,  lou,  you  sit  down,  sit  here;  and  I  at  your 
feet,  at  last,  with  all  my  soul,  to  adore  you.  to 
adore  you! 

•     (She  sinks  back  on  the  divan  and  he  falls  on 
his  knees  before  her.     She  is  convulsed  and 
trembling,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  lips. 
as  if  to  keep  him  from  speaking.     Breath 
and  icords  pass  between  her  fingers. 
At   last !     It    was   like   a   flood    coming   from   far 
off,  a  flood  of  all  the  beautiful  things  and  all  the 
good  things  that  you  have  poured  out  on  my  life 
since  you  begun  to  love  me :   and  my  heart  over- 
flowed, ah.  overflowed  so  that  I  staggered  under 
the  weight  of  it,  and  fainted  and  died  of  the  pain 
and    the    sweetness    of    it,    because    I  'dared    not 


SILVIA    SETTALA.     (Her   face  white,   her  voice 
almost  extinct.)     No  more;  say  no  more! 

Lucio  SL:TTALA.  Hear  me.  hear  me!  All  the 
sorrows  that  you  have  suffered,  the  wounds  that 
you  have  received  without  a  cry,  the  tears  that 
you  have  hidden  lest  I  should  have  shame  and 
remorse,  the  smiles  with  which  you  have  veiled 
your  agonus.  your  infinite  pity  for  my  wander- 
JIIL;-.  your  invincible  courage  in  the  face  of  death. 
your  'hard  fight  for  my  life,  your  hope  always 
alight  beside  my  bed.  your  watches,  cares,  con- 
tinual tremors,  expectation,  silence,  joy.  all  that 
is  deep,  all  that  is  sweet  and  heroic  in  you,  I 
know  it  all.  I  feel  it  all,  dear' soul:  and.  if  vio-  • 
leiice  is  enougn  to  break  a  yoke,  if  blood  is 
enough  for  redemption  (oh,  let  me  speak!)  I  bless 
the  evening  and  the  hour  that  brought  me  dying 
into  this  horse  of  your  martyrdom  and  of  your 
faith  to  receive  once  more  at  your  hands,  these 
divine  hands  that  tremble,  the  gift  of  life. 

(He  presses  his  convulsed  mouth  against  the 
palms  of  her  hands,  and  she  gazes  at  him 
through  the  tears  that  moisten  her  eyelids, 
transfigured  icith  unexpected  happiness. 


GIOCONDA. 


SILVIA  SETTALA.  (In  a  faint  and  broken 
voice.)  No  more,  say  no  more!  My  heart  cannot 
bear  it.  You  suffocate  me  with  joy.  I  longed  for 
one  word  from  you,  only  one,  no  more ;  and  all  at 
once  you  flood  "me  with  love,  you  fill  up  every 
vein,  you  raise  me  to  the  other  side  of  hope,  you 
outpass  my  dreams,  you  give  me  happiness  beyond 
all  expectation.  Ah,  what  did  you  say  of  my  sor- 
row.- '!  What  is  sorrow  endured,  what  is  silence 
«)ii-i rained,  what  is  a  tear,  what  is  a  smile,  now, 
in  the  face  of  this  flood  that  bears  me  away? 
I  feel  as  if  by-and-by,  for  you,  for -you,  I  shall  be 
sorry  not  to  have  suffered  more.  Perhaps  I  have 
not  reached  the  depths  of  sorrow,  but  I  know  that 
I  have  reached  the  height  of  happiness. 

(She  blindly  caresses  his  head,  as  it  lies  on 

her  knees. 

Ki-r.  rise!  Come  nearer  to  my  heart,  rest  on 
me,  give  way  to  my  tenderness,  press  my  hands  on 
your  eyelids,  be  silent,  dream,  call  back  the  deep 
forces  of  your  life.  Ah,  it  is  not  me  alone  that 
you  must  love,  not  me  alone,  but  the  love  I  have 
for  you:  love  my  love!  I  am  not  beautiful,  I  am 
not  worthy  of  your  eyes,  I  am  a  humble  creature 
in  the  shadow:  but  my  love  is  wonderful,  it  is  on  • 
high,  on  high,  it  is  alone,  it  is  sure  as  the  day,  it 
i-  -;  ronger  than  death,  it  can  work  miracles;  it 
shall-  give  you  all  that  you  -ask.  You  can  ask 
more  than  you  have  ever  hoped. 

(She  draws  him  to  her  heart,  raising  his 
head.  His  eyes  are  closed,  his  lips  tight 
set,  he  is  as  pale  as  death,  drunk  and 
exhausted  with  emotion. 

Rise,  rise!  Come  nearer  to  my  heart;  rest  on 
me.  Do  you  not  feel  that  you  can  give  yourself 
up  to  me;  that  nothing  in  the  world  is  surer 
than  my  breast?  that  you  can  find  it  always? 
Ah.  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  this  certitude 
might  intoxicate  you  like  glory. 

(He  kneels  before  her  with  uplifted  face;  she 
irith  both  hands  pushes  back  the  hair  to 
uncover  his  whole  forehead. 

Beautiful,  strong  forehead,  sealed  and  blessed! 
May  all  the  germs  of  spring  awaken  in  your  new 
thoughts! 

(Trembling  she  presses  her  lips  to  his  fore- 
head. Silently  he  stretches  out  his  arms 
toward  the  suppliant.  The  sunset  is  like 
a  dawn. 

END   OF   THE   FIKST  ACT. 


THE    SECOND    ACT. 

The  same  room,  the  same  hour  of  the  day.  A 
rlniiili/  <inil  changing  sky  is  seen  through  the 
window. 

SCENE  I. — Cosmo  DALBO  is  seated  by  a  table,  on 
irliich  he  rests  his  elbows,  putting  his  hand  to 
hifi    forehead,    grave    and    thoughtful.      Lucio 
SETTALA  is  on  foot,  restless  and  agitated;  he 
mores  about  the  room  uncertainly,  giving  way 
to  the  anguish  that  oppresses  him. 
Lucio  SETTALA.     YTes,  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
Why   should   I   hide  the   truth?     From  you!      I 
have  had  a  letter,  I  have  opened  it,  read  it. 
COSIMO  DALBO.     From  Gioconda? 
Lrcio  SETTALA.     From  her. 
1  o-i MO  DALBO.    A  love  letter? 
l.r<  10  SKTTALA.     It  burnt  my  fingers. 
(  'MSI  MO  DALBO.     Well  .' 


(He  hesitates.    In  a  voice  changed  by  emotion.. 
You  still  love  her? 

Lucio   SETTALA.      (With  a  shudder  of  dread.) 
No,  no,  no. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  (Looking  into  the  depths  of 
his  eyes.)  Y'ou  no  longer  love  her? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Entreatingly.)  Oh.  do  not 
torture  me.  I  suffer. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     But  what  is  it  then  that  dis- 
tresses you?  (A  pause. 
Lucio  SETTALA.     Every  day,  at  an  hour  that  I 
know,  she  waits  for  me,  there,  at  the  foot  of  the 
statue,  alone. 

(Another  pause.  The  two  men  seem  as  if 
they  saw  before  them  something  strong  and 
living,  a  Will,  evoked  by  those  brief  words. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  She  waits  for  you?  Where? 
In  your  studio?  How  could  she  get  in? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  She  has  a  key:  the  key  of 
that  time. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  She  waits  for  you!  She- 
thinks,  she  desires,  then,  that  you  should  still 
belong  to  her  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA.     Y^ou  have  said  it. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     And  what  shall  you  do? 

Lucio  SETTALA.     What  shall  I  do?     (A  pause^ 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Yrou  vibrate  like  a  flame. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     I  suffer. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Y'ou  are  Burning. 

Lucio  SETTALA.      (Vehemently.)     No. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Listen.  She  is  terrible.  One 
cannot  fight  against  her  save  at  a  distance.  That 
is  why  I  wanted  to  take  you  with  me  across  the 
sea.  Y'ou  preferred  death  to  the  sea.  Another 
(you  know  who,  and  your  heart  bleeds  for  her) 
has  saved  you  from  death.  And  now  you  can  live 
orily  for  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     It  is  true. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  YTou  must  go  away,  fly  from, 
her. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     For  always. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     For  some  time. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     She  will  wait  for  me. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     You  will  be  stronger. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Her  power  will  have  increased. 
She  will  have  more  profoundly  impregnated  with 
herself  the  place  that  is  dear  to  me  for  the  work's 
sake  that  was  achieved  there.  I  shall  see  her 
from  far  off,  like  the  guardian  of  a  statue  into' 
which  I  put  the  most  vivid  breath  of  my  soul. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Y'ou  love  her. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Despairingly.)  No.  I  do- 
not  love  her.  But  think :  she  will  always  be  the 
stronger:  she  knows  what  conquers  and  what 
binds  me ;  she  is  armed  with  a  fascination  from 
which  I  cannot  free  my  soul  except  by  tearing 
her  out  of  my  heart.  Must  I  try  again?' 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Ah,  you  are  raving! 

Lucio  SETTALA.  The  place  where  I  have 
dreamed,  where  I  have  worked,  where  I  have 
wept  with  joy,  where  I  have  cried  on  glory,  where 
I  have  seen  death,  is  her  conquest.  She  knows 
that  I  cannot  keep  away  from  it  or  renounce  it, 
that  the  most  precious  part  of  my  substance  is 
diffused  there:  and  she  waits  for  me,  certain. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Does  she  then  exercise  an 
inviolable  right  there?  Can  no  one  forbid  her 
entrance? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (With  a  profound  emotion.) 
Turn  her  out? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  No:  but  there  may  be  another 
way,  less  hard,  the  simplest  way:  ask  her  for  the 
key  which  she  has  no  right  to  retain. 


GIOCONDA. 


Lucio  SETT  ALA.     And  who  is  to  ask  her  for  it? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Any  one  of  us,  I  myself, 
respectfully,  in  the  name  of  necessity. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  She  would  refuse,  she  would 
look  upon  you  as  a  stranger. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     You  yourself  then. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     I  ?    I  face  her  ? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     No,  write  to  her.         (A  pause. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (With  the  accent  of  absolute 
impossibility.)  I  cannot.  And  it  would  all  be  in 
vain. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  But  there  is  another  way: 
leave  that  house,  clear  out  everything,  take  every- 
thing somewhere  else.  You  will  thus  avoid  the 
intolerable  sadness  of  memory.  How  is  it  you  do 
not  realize  that  change  is  necessary,  if  your  life 
is  to  renew  itself,  so  that  the  companion  you  have 
found  again  may  help  you  in  your  work?  Would 
you  have  her  sit  where  the  other  had  been? 
Would  you  have  her  always  see  before  her  eyes 
the  vision  of  that  horrible  evening? - 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Smiling,  disheartened  and 
bitter.)  Well,  yes,  you  are  right:  we  will  leave 
here,  we  will  go  somewhere  else,  we  will  choose  a 
beautiful  solitary  place,  we  will  shake  off  the  dust 
from  old  things,  open  all  the  windows,  let  in  the 
pure  air, -take  a  heap  of  clay,  a  block  of  marble, 
set  up  a  monument  to  liberty. 

(He  breaks  off.    His  voice  becomes  singularly 

calm. 

One  morning,  Gioconda  will  knock  at  the  new 
door;  I  shall  open  to  her:  she  will  come  in:  with- 
out surprise  I  shall  say  to  her,  "Welcome." 

( Unable  to  restrain  his  bitterness. 
Ah,  tut  you  are  like  a  child!  The  whole  thing 
seems  to  you  no  more  than  a  key.  Call  in  a  lock- 
smith, change  the  lock,  and  I  am  saved. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  ( Tenderly  and  sadly. )  Do  not 
be  angry.  At  first  I  thought  you  had  simply  to 
rid  -yourself  of  an  intruder.  Now  I  see  that  my 
advice  was  childish. 

LTJCIO  SETTALA.  (Imploringly.)  Cosimo,  my 
friend,  do  understand  me! 

COSIMO  DALBO.,     I  understand,  but  you  deny  it. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  [Again  'carried  away  by 
excitement.)  I  deny  nothing.  I  deny  nothing. 
\Vould  you  have  me  cry  to  you  that  I  love  her  ? 

(Looks  about  him  in  an  aimless  bewilder- 
ment. Passes  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
with  an  air  of  suffering.  Loivers  his  voice. 
You  should  have  let  me  die.  Think,  if  I  who  was 
intoxicated  with  life,  if  I  who  was  frantic  with 
strength  and  pride,  if  I  wanted  to  die,  be  sure  I 
knew  there  was  an  insuperable  necessity  for  it. 
Not  being  able  to  live  either  with  or  without  her, 
I  resolved  to  quit  the  world.  Think:  I  who  looked 
on  the  world  as  my  garden,  and  had  every  lust 
after  every  beauty!  Be  sure,  then,  I  knew  there 
was  an  insuperable  necessity,  an  iron  destiny. 
You  should  have  let  me  die. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  You  have  forgotten  the  divine 
miracle,  cruelly. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  I  am  not  cruel.  Because  I 
was  in  horror  of  that  cruelty  toward  which  the 
violence  of  evil  drew  me,  because  I  would  not 
trample  upon  a  more  than  human  virtue,  because 
I  could  not  endure  the  sweetness  of  a  little  uncon- 
scious voice  questioning  me,  because  I  wished  to 
keep  myself  from  the  worst  of  all  (do  you  under- 
stand?) I  made  my  resolve.  And  because  I  am 
in  horror  of  beginning  over  again,  therefore  I 
bate  myself:  because  to-day  I  am  like  one  who  has 
taken  a  narconc  in  despair,  and  who  wakes  up 


again,  after  a  sound  sleep,  and  finds  the  same  old 
despair  by  his  bedside. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  The  same!  And  your  first 
words  are  still  in  my  ears:  "I  know  nothing  now, 
I  don't  remember,  I  don't  want  to  remember  any 
more."  You  seemed  as  if  you  had  forgotten  all, 
as  if  you  reached  out  after  some  new  good  thing. 
The  sound  of  your  voice  is  still  in  my.,  ears  as 
you  called  to  Beata's  mother,  getting  up  hurriedly, 
impatient,  as  if  with  an  ardour  that  permits  no 
delay.  I  still  see  the  way  you  looked  at  her. 
when  she  entered,  tremulous  as  hope.  And,  surely, 
that  night  you  must  needs  have  knelt  to  her,  and 
she  must  have  wept  over  you,  and  both  together 
must  have  felt  the  goodness  of  life. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  indeed  so: 
adoration!  All  my  soul  was  prostrate  at  her  feet 
knowing  all  that  is  divine  in  her,  with  an  intoxi- 
cation of  humility,  with  a  fervour  of  unspeakable 
gratitude.  I  was  carried  away.  You  spoke  of  the 
ecstasy  of  light:  I  experienced  it  in  that  moment. 
Every  stain  was  wiped  out,  every  shadow  cleared 
away.  Life  had  a  new  splendour.  I  thought  I 
was  saved  for  ever.  (He  breaks  off. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     But  then? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Then  I  knew  that  there  was 
something  else  that  must  be  abolished  in  me:  the 
force  that  flows  incessantly  to  my  fingers,  as  if  tc 
reproduce. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     What  do  you  mean? 

Lucid  SETTALA.  I  mean  that  I  should  perhaps 
have  been  saved,  if  I  had  forgotten  art  also. 
Those  days,  there  in  my  bed,  as  I  looked  at  my 
feeble  hands,  it  seemed  to  me  incredible  that  1 
should  ever  create  again;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  had  lost  all  my  power.  I  felt  completely 
estranged  from  the  world  of  form  in  which  I  had 
lived  .  .  .  before  I  died.  I  thought:  "Lucio 
Settala,  the  sculptor,  is  dead."  And  I  dreamt  of 
becoming  the  gardener  of  a  little  garden. 

( He  sits  down,  as  if  quieted,  half  closing  his 
eyes,  with  a  weary  air,  a  scarcely  visible 
smile  of  irony. 

To  prune  roses,  water  them,  pick  the  caterpillars 
off  them,  clip  the  box  with  shears,  train  the  ivy  up 
the  walls,  in  a  little  garden  sloping  to  the  waters 
of  oblivion ;  and  not  regret  that  one  has  left  on 
tne  other  shore  a  glorious  park,  populous  with 
laurels,  and  cypresses,  and  myrtles,  and  marbles, 
and  dreams.  \ou  see  me  there,  happy,  with  shin- 
ing shears,  dressed  in  twill. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     I  do  not  see  you. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     It  is  a  pity,  my  friend. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  But  who  forbids  your  return 
to  the  great  park?  You  can  return  to  it  by  the 
alley  of  cypresses,  and  find  your  tutelar  genius  at 
the  end  of  the  way. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Leaping  to  his  feet,  like  one 
who  again  loses  self-control.)  Tutelar!  Ah,  you 
seem  to  heap  one  word  on  another,  like  bandages 
on  lint,  for  fear  of  feeling  the  pulsation  of  life. 
Have  you  ever  put  your  finger  on  an  open  artery, 
a  torn  tendon? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Lucio,  your  anger  grows  on 
you  every  minute.  You  have  something  wry  and 
acrid,  a  kind  of  exasperation  which  hinders  you 
from  being  just.  You  are  not  yet  out  of  con- 
valescence, you  are  not  yet  well.  A  sudden  shock 
has  come  to  disturb  the  placid  work  that  nature 
was  carrying  out  in  you.  Your  new-born  strength 
festers.  If  my  advice  were  worth  anything,  I 
would  bid  you  go  at  once  tb  Bocca  d'Arno,  as  you 
proposed.  There,  between  the  woods  and  the  sea, 


10 


GIOCONDA. 


you  will  find  once  more  a  little  calm,  and  you 
will  think  over  what  your  attitude  must  be;  and 
you  will  find  too  the  goodness  that  will  give  you 
light. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Goodness!  goodness!  Do  you 
ihink  then  that  light  must  come  from  goodness 
and  not  from  that  profound  instincu  which  turns 
and  hurries  my  spirit  towards  the  most  glorious 
images  of  life?  I  was  born  to  make  statues. 
When  a  material  form  has  gone  out  of  my  hands 
with  the  imprint  of  beauty,  the  office  assigned  to 
me  by  nature  is  ful  til  led.  I  have  not  exceeded  tny 
own  law,  whether  or  not  I  have  exceeded  the  laws 
of  right.  Is  it  not  really  true?  Do  you  admit  it? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Proceed. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Lowering  his  voice.)  The 
sport  of  illusion  has  mated  7iie  with  a  creature 
who  was  never  meant  for  me.  She  is  a  soul  of 
inestimable  price,  before  whom  I  kneel  and  wor- 
ship. But  I  am  not  a  sculptor  of  souls.  She  was 
not  meant  for  me.  When  the  other  appeared 
before  me,  I  thought  of  all  the  blocks  of  marble 
hidden  in  the  caves  of  far  mountains,  thai  I 
might  arrest  in  each  of  them  one  of  her  motions. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  But  now  you  have  obeyed  the 
commandment  of  nature,  in  creating  your  master- 
piece. When  I  saw  your  statue  I  thought  that 
you  were  free  from  her.  You  have  perpetuated  a 
frail  sample  of  the  species  in  an  ideal  and  inde- 
structible type.  Are  you  not  therefore  satisfied? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (More  excitedly.)  A  thou- 
sand statues,  not  one !  She  is  always  diverse, 
like  a  cloud  that  from  instant  to  instant  seems 
changed  without  your  seeing  it  change.  Every 
motion  of  her  body  destroys  one  harmony  and 
creates  another  yet  more  beautiful.  You  implore 
her  to  stay,  to  remain  motionless :  and  across  all 
her  immobility  there  passes  a  torrent  of  obscure 
forces,  as  thoughts  pass  in  the  eyes.  Do  you 
understand?  do  you  understand?  The  life  of  the 
eyes  is  the  look,  that  indefinable  thing,  more 
expressive  than  any  word,  than  any  sound,  infi- 
nitely deep  and  yet  instantaneous  as  a  breath, 
swifter  than  a  flash,  innumerable,  omnipotent:  in 
a  word,  the  look.  Now  imagine  the  life  of  the 
look  diffused  over  all  her  body.  Do  you  under- 
stand? The  quiver  of  an  eyelid  transfigures  a 
human  face  and  expresses  an  immensity  of  joy  or 
sorrow.  The  eyelashes  of  the  creature  whom  you 
love  are  lowered:  the  shadow  encircles  you  as  the 
waters  encircle  an  island:  they  are  raised:  the 
flame  of  summer  burns  up  the  world.  Another 
quiver:  your  soul  dissolves  like  a  drop  of  water; 
another:  you  are  lord  of  the  universe.  Imagine 
that  mystery  over  all  her  body!  Imagine  through 
all  her  limbs,  from  the  forehead  to  the  sole  of  the 
foot,  that  flash  of  lightning,  like  life!  Can  one 
chisel  the  look?  The  ancients  made  their  statues 
Mind.  Now,  imagine,  her  whole  body  is  like  the 
look. 

(A  pause.  He  lookx  about  him  suspiciously, 
in  fear  of  bfiii;/  In-nnl.  ll<  conies  nearer 
to  his  friend,  irlio  //.s/r//.s  iritli  in<-r<-«xin<i 
emotion. 

I  have  told  you:  a  thousand  statues,  not  one.  Her 
beauty  lives  in  every  block  of  marble..  I  felt  this, 
with  an  anxiety  made  up  of  regret  and  fervour, 
one  day  at  Carrara,  when  she  was  with  me,  and 
we  saw,  coming  down  the  monnfa in-side,  those 
great  oxen  with  yokes.  <lra wing  the  marble  in 
wagons.  An  aspect  of  her  perfeelion  was  inclosed 
for  me  in  each  of  those  formless  masses.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  there  went  out  from  her 


towards  the  raw  material  a  thousand  life-giving 
sparks,  as  from  a  shaken  torch.  We  had  to  choose 
a  block.  T  remember,  it  was  a  calm  day.  The 
marble  shone  in  the  sun  like  the  eternal  snows. 
\Ve  heard  from  time  to  time  the  rumbling  of  the 
mines  that  tore  asunder  the  bowels  of  the  silent 
mountain.  I  shall  never  forget  that  hour,  though 
I  were  to  die  over  again.  She  went  into  the  midst 
o|  that  concourse  of  white  cubes,  stopping  before 
each.  She  leant  over,  observed  the  grain  atten- 
tively.  seemed  to  explore  the  inner  veins,  hesitated, 
smiled,  passed  on.  To  my  eyes  her  garments 
were  no  covering.  There  was  a  sort  of  divine 
;i ll'mity  between  her  flesh  and  the  marble  that 
she  leant  over  until  her  breath  touched  it.  A 
confused  aspiration  seemed  to  rise  to  her  from 
that  inert  whiteness.  The  wind,  the  sun,  the 
grandeur  of  the  mountains,  the  long  lines  of  yoked 
oxen,  and  the  ancient  curve  of  the  yokes,  and  the 
creaking  of  the  wagons,  and  the  cloud  that  rose 
from  the  Tirreno,  and  the  lofty  flight  of  an  eagle, 
everything  I  saw  exalted  my  spirit  into  a  limitless 
poetry,  intoxicated  me  with  a  dream  that  I  had 
never  equaled.  Ah,  Cosimo,  Cosimo,  I  have  dared 
to  throw  away  a  life  on  which  there  gleams  the 
glory  of  such  a  memory.  When  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  marble  that  she  had  chosen,  and  turning 
to  me  said  "This,"  all  the  mountains,  from  root 
to  summit,  breathed  beauty. 

(.In  extraordinary  fervour  warms  his  voice 
<ni<l  (/iiickms  his  gestures.  The  listener  is 
carried  auxiy  by  it,  and  makes  no  sign. 
Ah.  now  you  understand!  You  will  never  ask  me 
again  if  1  am  satisfied.  Now  you  know  how 
furious  must  be  my  impatience  when  I  think  that 
she  is  there  now,  alone,  at  the  foot  of  the  Sphinx, 
awaiting  me.  Think,  the  statue  rises  above  her, 
immobile,  immutable,  in  its  immunity  from  all 
sorrow;  and  she  is  there,  grieving,  and  her  life 
is  ebbing  away,  and  something  of  her  perishes 
continually.  Delay  is  death.  But  you  do  not 
know,  you  do  not  know.  .'.  . 

(He  speaks  as  if  about  to  confide  a  secret. 

UOSIMO  DABLO.     What. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  You  do  not  know  that  I  had 
begun  another  statue? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Another? 

Lino  SKTTALA.  Yes.  it  was  left  unfinished 
sketched  out  in  the  clay.  If  the  clay  dries,  all 
is  lost. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Well? 

Lrcio  SKTTALA.     I  thought  it  was  lost. 

(.hi.  irresistible  miiilc  shines  in  his  eyes.     His 

voice  trembles. 

It  is  not  lost;  it  still  lives.  The  last  touch  of  the 
tniiniK  is  there,  still  living. 

i  lit-  iiiiil.Ts  ll/i-  i/i-s/itrc  of  moulding  instinct- 
ively. 

('us i. MO  DALBO.     How? 

Li  (io  SKTTALA.  She  knows  the  ways  of  the 
art,  she  knows  how  the  clay  is  kept  soft.  Once 
she  used  to  help  me.  She  herself  damped  the 
cloths. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  So  she  thought  of  keeping  the 
clay  moist  while1  you  were  dying! 

Li 'do  SKTTALA.  Was  not  that  too  a  way  of 
opposing  death  '!  Was  not  that  too  an  act  of  faith, 
admirable?  She  preserved  my  work. 

COSIMO  DAI, no.  While  the  other  preserved 
your  life. 

Lino  SKTTALA.  (Gloomily,  lowering  his  fore- 
ln'inl.  irillioul  /iKil.-ini/  a!  his  friend,  in  an  almost 
hiinl  ro/rr. )  Which  of  the  two  is  worth  more? 


GIOCONDA. 


11 


Life  is  intolerable  to  me,  if  it  was  only  given  back 
with  such  a  dragging  weight  on  it.  I  have  told 
you:  yon  should  have  let  me  die.  What  greater 
renunciation  can  I  make  than  thai  I  have  made? 
Only  deatli  could  stay  the  rush  of  desire  that 
drives  my  wnole  being,  fatally,  toward  its  own 
particular  good.  Now  I  live  again:  I  recognize 
in  myself  the  same  man.  the  same  force.  Who 
shall  judge  me  if  I  follow  out  my  destiny? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  (Terrified,  taking  him  by  the 
unit  us  (/  to  restrain  him.)  But  what  will  you 
do?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind? 

(Struck  by  the  sudden  terror  in  the  voice  and 

gestures  of  his  friend,  Lucio  hesitates. 
.  Lucio  SETTALA.  (Putting  his  hands  through 
hift  hair  fererishly.)  What  shall  I  do?  What 
shall  I  do?  Do  you  know  a  more  cruel  torture? 
I  am  dizzy:  do  you  understand?  If  I  think  that 
she  is  there,  and  waiting  for  me,  and  the  hours 
are  passing,  and  my  strength  being  lost,  and  my 
ardour  burning  itself  away,  dizziness  clutches 
hold  of  my  soul,  and  I  am  in  fear  that  I  shall  be 
drawn  there,  perhaps  to-night,  perhaps  to-morrow. 
L»o  you  know  what  that  dizziness  is?  Ah,  if  I 
could  reopen  the  wound  that  they  have  closed  for 
me! 

COSIMO  DALBO.  ( Trying  to  lead  him  towards 
the  window.)  Be  calm,  be  calm,  Lucio.  Hush!  I 
think  I  hear  the  voice.  .  . 

Lucio  SETTALA.      (Starting.)      Silvia's? 

(He  turns  deathly  pale. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  Yes.  Be  calm.  You  are  in  a 
fever. 

(He  touches  liis  forehead.  Lucio  leans  on 
the  window-sill,  as  if  all  his  strength  is 
leaving  him. 

SCE^E    II. — SILVIA    SETTAXA    enters   with   FRAN- 

CESCA  DONI.     The  latter  has  her  arm  round  her 

ulster's  waist. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Oh,  Dalbo,  are  you  still  here? 
( She  docs  not  see  Lucio's  face,  which  he  has 
turned  to  the  open  air. 

COSIMO  DALBO.  (Composing  his  countenance, 
it  ml  greeting  FRANCESCA.)  Lucio  kept  me. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Had  he  a  great  deal  to  tell 
you? 

COSIMO  DALBO.  He  always  has  a  great  deal  to 
tell  me,  sometimes  too  much.  And  he  is  tired. 

Si i, VTA  SETTALA.  Did  he  tell  you  that  we  are 
going  to  Bocca  d'Arno  on  Saturday? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     Yes.     I  know. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Bocca 
d'Arno? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     No,  never.     I  know  the  coun- 
try about  Pisa:   San  Rossore,  Gombo,  San  Pietro 
in  Grado ;  but  I  never  went  as  far  as  the  mouth  of 
the  river.     I  know  that  the  coast  is  most  lovely. 
(  SILVIA  gazes  fixedly  at  her  husband,  who 
remains     leaning     motionless    against    the 
window-sill. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Delicious  at  this  time  of  the 
year:  a  low,  open  coast,  with  fine  sand:  sea,  river, 
and  woods:  the  scent  of  resin  and  sea -grass:  sea- 
gulls, nightingales.  You  ought  to  come  often  and 
see  Lucio  while  he  is  there. 

COSIMO  DALBO.     With  pleasure. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     We  can  put  you  up. 

(She  leaves  her  sister  and  goes  toward  her 
husband,  icith  her  light  step. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Our  mother  has  a  simple 
house  there,  but  it  is  large,  white  inside  and  out- 
side, in  a  thicket  of  oleanders  and  tamarfnds,  and 
there  is  an  Empire  spinet,  which  used  to  belong — 


fancy  to  whom? — to  a  sister  of  Napoleon,  the 
Duchess  of  Lucca,  the  terrible,  bony  Elisa 
j>aciocchi:  a  spinet  that  sometimes  wakes  and 
weeps  under  Silvia's  fingers;  and  there  is  a  boat, 
if  the  Napoleonic  relic  doesn't  tempt  you,  a  lovely 
IK  at.  as  white  as  the  house. 

(  SILVIA  leans  in  silence  against  Lucio's 
shoulder  as  if  c.rjti'i-linit.  He  remains 
absorbed. 

(  OSIMO  DALBO.  To  live  in  a  boat,  on  the  water, 
aimlessly,  there  is  nothing  so  refreshing.  I  have 
lived  like  that  for  weeks  and  weeks. 

FRANCESCA  DOM.  We  ought  to  put  our  con- 
valescent in  a  boat,  and  confide  him  to  the  good 
sea. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Touching  her  husband 
lightly  on  the  shoulder.)  Lucio!  (He  starts 
/tin/  turns.)  What  are  you  doing?  We  are  here. 
Here  is  Francesca. 

(He  looks  his  wife  in  the  face,  hesitatingly; 

then   tries  to  smile. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  There  is  a  shower  coming.  I 
was  looking  for  the  first  drops:  the  odour  of  the 
earth.  .  .  . 

(He  turns  again  -toward  the  icindoic,  and 
holds  out  his  open  hands;  they  tremble 
I'ifiibly. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  April  either  weeps  or 
laughs. 

Lucio  SETTALA.     Oh,  Francesca,  how  are  you? 
FRANCKSCA  DONI.    Quite  well.    And  you,  Lucio? 
Lucio  SETTALA.     Quite  well,  quite  well. 
FRANCESCA    DONI.     Are    you    going    away    on 
Saturday  ? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  (Looking  at  his  wife,  in  a 
dreamy  way.)  Where? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     Why,  to  Bocca  d'Arno. 
Lucio  SETTALA.     Ah,  yes,  true.     My  memory  is 
quite  gone.  .     , 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Do  you  not  feel  well  to-day? 
Lucio    SETTALA.     Yes,    yes,    quite    well.      The 
weather  upsets  me  a  little;  but  I  feel  well,  pretty 
well. 

(In  the  tone  with  which  he  pronounces  these 
simple  words  there  -is  an  excess  of  dissimu- 
lation, which  gires  him  the  strangeness  of 
a  madman.  It  is  evident  that  the  atten- 
tion of  the  three  bystanders  is  intolerable 
to  him. 
Are  you  going,  Cosimo? 

COSIMO  DALBO.     YTes,  I  am  going.  It  is  time. 

(He  prepares  to  go. 

Lucio  SETTALA.  I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as 
the  garden-gate. 

( He  leaves  the  window  and  goes  towards  the 

door  anxiously. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Are  you  going  without  your 
hat? 

Lucio  SETTALA.  Yes,  I  am  hot.  Don't  you 
feel  how  heavy  the  air  is? 

i  ll<    /iiniscs  on  the  threshold,  waiting  for  his 
friend.       A     sharp     pain     suddenly     goes 
through  all  hearts,  striking  every  one  silent. 
.COSIMO  DALBO.     Au  revoir. 

(He  bows  in  a  constrained  way,  and  goes  out 
irith   Lucio.     SILVIA  bends  her  head,  knit- 
ting _  her  brows,  as  if  she  is  thinking  out 
some  resolution.     Then  it  seems  as  if  she  is 
lifted  on  a  sudden  wave  of  energy. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     Have  you  seen  Gaddi  ? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Not  yet.     He  has  not  come 
to-day. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     Then  you  don't  know. 


12 


GIOCONDA. 


SILVIA  SETT  ALA.     What?  ^ 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     What  he  has  done? 
SILVIA  SETT  ALA.     No. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     He  went  to  see  Diauti. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (With  restrained  emotion.) 
To  see  her!  When? 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     Yesterday. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     And  you  have  seen  him? 

FBANCESCA  D<  .\i.  Yes,  I  met  him.  He  told 
me.  .  . 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Speak,  speak! 

FBANCESCA  DONI.  He  went  to  see  her  yester- 
day, about  three.  He  sent  in  his  name.  He  was 
admitted  at  once.  She  received  him  smilingly, 
bowed,  never  said  a  word,  stood  before  him,  wait- 
ing for  the  old  man  to  speak,  listened  to  him 
quietly  and  respectfully.  You  can  imagine  what 
he  might  have  said  to  persuade  her  to  give  back 
the  key,  to  give  up  any  further  attempts,  and  not 
trouble  a  peace  bought  back  at  the  price  of  blood, 
and  what  sorrow!  When  he  had  finished  she 
merely  asked:  "Did  Lucio  Settala  send  yon  to 
mef"  On  his  reply  in  the  negative,  she  added 
very  firmlv:  "Pardon  me,  but  I  cannot  admit  that 
any  one  but  he  has  the  right  of  asking  what  you 
have  asked." 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Turning  pale  and  drawing 
herself  up  as  if  for  a  contest.)  Ah,  that  is  her 
last  word.  Well,  there  is  some  one  else  who  has 
an  equal  riguc  and  who  will  insist  on  her  right. 
We  shall  see. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.  (Startled.)  What  are  you 
thinking  of  doing,  Silvia? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     What  is  necesary. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     What  then? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Seeing  her,  facing  her,  in 
the  place  where  she  is  an  intruder.  Do  you 
understand  ? 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     You  would  go-  there  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  I  am  going  there.  I 
know  her  time.  You  yourself  know  it.  I  will 
wait  for  her.  She  shall  see.  We  shall  meet  face 
to  face  at  last. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     You  will  not  do  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Why  not?  Do  you  think  I 
have  not  the  courage? 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     I  entreat  you,  Silvia! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.    Do  you  think  I  tremble? 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     I  entreat  you ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Oh,  be  sure,  I  shall  not  lower 
my  eyes,  I  shall  not  faint.  You  ought  to  know  me 
by  now;  I  have  gone  through  more  than  one 
ordeal. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.  I  know,  I  know.  Nothing 
is  too  much  for  you.  But  think:  to  go  there, 
after  all  that,  in  the  very  place  where  the  horrible 
thing  happened,  there,  alone,  face  to  face  with  that 
woman,  who  has  done  you  so  much  injury. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Well?  What  of  that?  Have 
I  once — once,  Francesca! — failed  to  accomplish 
what  seemed  to  me  necessary?  Tell  me,  have  you 
ever  known  n: ;  refuse  a  burden?  From  what  tor- 
ture have  I  drawn  back  ?  I  have  faced  many  other 
sorrows,  as  you  know.  You  are  afraid  that  my 
heart  will  fail  me  if  I  set  foot  where  he  fell  ?  But 
I  had  the  courage  tnen  to  look  at  him  through 
the  crack  of  the  door,  when  he  lay  on  his  bed  of 
death,  and  thero  was  no  one  by  me  to  support  me; 
and,  before  I  was  allowed  to  go  to  his  bedside,  the 
surgeon's  steel  and  the  blood-stained  lint  passed 
through  my  hands. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.  Yes,  yes,  true:  your  strength 
is  great.  Nothing  is  too  much  for  you.  But 


think :  this  is  not  the  same  thing.  It  is  not  the 
same  tiling  to  go  there,  and  to  find  yourself  face 
to  face  with  a  woman  whom  you  do  not  know, 
capable  of  anything,  obstinate,  impudent. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  have  no  fear  of  her.  What 
she  does  is  base.  Because  she  thinks  me  weak  and 
submissive,  therefore  she  is  bold;  because  I  have 
so  long  remained  silent  and  aloof,  therefore  she 
thinks  she  can  once  more  get  the  better  of  me. 
Jttit  she  is  wrong.  Then  all  I  cared  for  was  lost, 
all  resistance  was  useless.  Now  I  have  won  it 
back,  and  I  defend  it. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  My  God!  you  are  throwing 
yourself  into  a  hand  to  hand  contest.  And  if  she 
resists? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  How  resists?  I  have  my 
right.  I  can  turn  her  out. 

KKANCESCA  DONI.     Silvia,   Silvia,  my  sister. 
entreat  you:  wait  a  few  days  longer,  think  it  over 
a  little  before  you  do  this.    Do  not  be  rash. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Ah,  you  speak  well,  you  who 
are  happy,  you  who  are  safe,  you  whose  life  is 
secure  and  with  nothing  to  threaten  your  peace. 
Wait,  think  over!  But  do  you  know  the  crisis  in 
which  I  finu  myself  to-day?  Do  you- know  what 
1  am  fighting  for?  For  my  own  self  and  for 
Beata,  for  existence,  for  the  light  of  my  eyes.  Do 
you  see?  I  cannot  again  go  through  a  martyrdom 
in  which  all  my  nerves  were  torn  to  pieces;  in 
which  every  torture  was  tried  on  me.  I  have 
given  sorrow  all  I  can  give  it;  I  have  felt  the 
hard  iron  on  my  neck  and  on  my  wrists;  at  the 
day's  end  my  sleep  was  taken  away  by  the  horror 
of  the  day  to  come,  in  which  I  should  have  to  go 
on  living,  and,  in  order  to  live,  squeeze  out  my 
heart  drop  by  drop  when  it  seemed  empty  of  every- 
thing. Ah,  you  speak  well,  you!  When  you  smile 
in  your  home  your  smile  returns  to  you  in  a  hun- 
dred rays,  as  if  you  lived  in  a  crystal.  For  me, 
smiling  was  one  sorrow  the  more;  under  it,  I 
clenched  my  teeth;  but  Beata  never  saw  a  tear  in 
my  eyes.  That  I  might  fulfill  the  promise  of  her 
name,  when  there  was  not  a  fiber  in  me  that  was 
not  wrenched  asunder,  my  hands  were  always  held 
out  to  her  with  flowers.  I  could  not  begin  over 
again.  I  would  rather  go  away  myself,  and  find 
a  little  quiet  seashore  somewhere,  and  lie  down 
there  with  Beata  and  let  the  sea  take  us. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.      (Throwing  her  arms  around 
her  sister's  neck,  and  kissing  her.)     What  are  you 
saying?  what  are  you  saying?     You  ought  to  be 
afraid  of  nothing  any  longer.     Does  he  not  love 
you?     Have  you  not  seen  all  his  love  come  back? 
That  is  what  matters;  all  the  rest  is  nothing. 
(  SILVIA  closes  her  eyes  for  a  few  instants, 
and  the  illusion  brightens  her  face. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  his  love 
come  back.  It  seems  .  .  .  How  could  I  doubt  that 
voice?  When  I  am  not  there,  he  calls  me,  he  looks 
for  me;  he  needs  me;  it  seems  as  if  I  am  to  lead 
his  steps. 

(She  shakes  herself,  withdraws  from  her  sis- 
ter's arms,  and  becomes  anxious  again. 
But  to-day.  .  .  .  Did  you  see  him?  did  you  look 
at  him?  To-day  he  is  not  like  he  was  yesterday. 
A  sudden  change.  .  .  .  Did  you  look  at  him  when 
he  was  at  the  window,  leaning  out?  Did  you  hear 
the  sound  of  his  words  ?  Did  you  see  how  his  arm 
trembled  when  -ic  stretched  it  out?  Ah,  tell  me  if 
you  too  felt  that  something  had  happened,  that 
something  had  disturbed  him. 

FBANCESCA    DONI.     He    is    still    convalescent. 


GIOCONDA. 


13 


Think:   a  mere  nothing  is  enough  to  disturb  him, 
ilic  air.  the  weather  .  .  . 

SILVIA  SETT  ALA.  No,  no,  it  is  not  that.  And 
did  you  not  see?  Cosimo  Dalbo  too  seemed  to  be 
making  an  effort  to  hide  some  shadow.  My  eyes 
never  deceive  me. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  No,  it  did  not  strike  me. 
He  was  talking  with  me. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  ( With  increasing  agitation.) 
But  Lucio  went  down  to  see  him  out,  and  he  lias 
not  yet  come  back.  Or  perhaps  he  went  across  to 
the  other  side. 

(does  to  the  window,  and  looks  through  the 

curtain*. 

^n.  he  is  still  there,  at  the  gate,  talking,  talking. 
He  seems  beside  himself. 

(Lifts  her  eyes  to  the  clouds. 
Tlie  thunder  is  coming. 

(Looks  out  again,  very  intently. 
FKAXCKSCA  DONI.     Call  him! 
SILVIA   SETTALA.     (Turning,  as  if  seized  by  a 
ifrriblc  thought.    I  am  sure  of  it,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
FHANCESCA   DONI.     What  are  you   thinking  of 
now '! 

SILVIA    SETTALA.     (Pausing,    and    pronouncing 
the  words  distinctly,   pale  but  resolute.)      Lucio 
knows  that  she  is  waiting  for  him. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     He  knows?     How? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     There  is  no  doubt,  there  is  no 
doubt. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     You  imagine  it. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     I  feel  it;  I  am  sure  of  it. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     But  how? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     It  was  bound  to  come;    she 
was  bound  to  find  out  the  way  one  day  or  another. 
How?      A    letter,    perhaps.      He    has    received    a 
letter. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  And  you  were  not  on  the 
watch  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.      (Disdainfully.)      Even  that? 
FRANCESCA   DONI.     But  perhaps  you  are  mis- 
taken. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  am  not  mistaken.  After 
the  old  man's  visit,  she  wrote.  Delay  is  no  longer 
possible  now,  not  a  day,  not  an  hour.  You  see  the 
danger.  Though  he  may  have  come  back  to  me 
with  all  his  soul,  though  he  may  have  broken 
with  her  entirely,  though  he  may  have  gone  back 
to  another  life,  another  happiness,  do  you  not 
feel  what  might  still  be  the  fascination  for  him 
of  a  woman  who  says,  obstinate  and  certain:  "I 
am  here,  I  wait."  To  know  that  she  is  there, 
that  she  is  waiting  there  every  day,  that  nothing 
can  dishearten  her.  Do  you  see  the  danger?  If 
Lucio  knew  this  morning  that  she  is  waiting  for 
him,  he  must  know  to-night,  and  from  my  lips, 
that  she  waits  for  him  no  longer. 

(An  indomitable  energy  strengthens  and  lifts 

her  whole  being. 
He  shall  know  it  to-night;  I  promise  him. 

(She  stretohes  out  her  hand  toward  the  win- 
dow,  with    the   gesture   of   one    taking   an 
oath. 
Will  you  come  with  me? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  (Anxious  and  entreating.) 
Silvia,  Silvia,  think  for  one  moment!  Think 
what  you  are  doing! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  do  not  ask  your  aid.  I 
only  ask  you  to  come  with  me  as  far  as  the  door. 
For  the  rest,  I  alone  suffice;  it  is  necessary  that  I 
should  be  alone.  Will  you?  What  time  is  it? 

( Turns  to  look  at  the  time;  goes  toward  the 
table. 


FRANCESCA  DONI.  (Stopping  her.)  I  entreat 
of  you !  Listen  to  me,  Silvia !  My  heart  tells  me 
that  no  good  can  come  of  what  you  are  wanting 
to  do.  Listen  to  your  sister !  I  entreat  of  you. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  (With  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience.) Don't  you  know  the  game  I  am  playing? 
Let  me  be.  I  am  going  alone.  (Bends  over  the 
table,  and  looks  at  the  time.)  Four  o'clock.  I 
have  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Is  your  carriage 
there? 

(The  rain  falls  suddenly  on  the  trees  in  the 

garden. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.  See  how  it  is  pouring! 
Don't  go  out!  Put  it  off  till  to-morrow.  Come, 
listen.  (Tries  to  draw  her  towards  her.)  Wait 
at  least  till  it  stops  raining. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  have  not  a  minute  to  lose. 
L  must  be  there  before  her;  she  must  find  me 
there  as  if  in  my  own  house.  Do  you  understand? 
Let  me  go.  Quick,  my  hat,  my  cloak,  my  gloves. 
(Jiovanna! 

(She  goes  into  the  next  room  calling  to  her 
maid.  FRANCESCA  DONI,  terrified,  goes 
towards  the  window,  on  which  the  rain  is 
beating. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  My  God!  my  God!  (Looks 
into  the  garden;  calls:  Lucio!  Lucio! 

(Turns  towards  the  door  through  which  her 

sister  has  gone  out. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Coming  back,  out  of  breath.) 
I  am  ready.  I  left  Beata  there  in  tears.  She 
wanted  to  go  out  with  me.  Stay,  please;  go  and 
comfort  her.  I  will  go  alone.  I  shall  take  your 
carriage.  Au  revoir. 

(Is  about  to  kiss  her  sister. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  You  are  going,  then?  You 
have  decided,? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     I  am  going. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     I  will  go  with  you. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Let  us  go. 

(Involuntarily  she  turns  and  looks  around 
the  room,  as  if  to  embrace  everything  that 
is  in  it  in  one  look.  The  curtains  tremble, 
the  rain  increases.  She  breathes  in  the 
damp  fragrance  that  enters  at  the  window. 
For  one  instant  the  strung  bow  of  her  \urill 
slackens. 
The  odour  of  the  earth  .  .  . 

(She  shivers,  as  she  suddenly  catches  sight  of 
Lucio,  who  appears  on  the  threshold,  fever- 
ishly,   with    bare    head,    his    hair   and    his 
clothes  wet  with  rain.     They  look  at  one 
another.     An  interval   of  weighty   silence. 
Lucio  SETTALA.     (In  a  hoarse  voice.)     You  are 
going  out? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Yes,  I  am  going  out. 
Lucio  SETTALA.     How  pale  you  are!      ( SILVIA 
puts   her  hand  to  her  throat.)      Where  are  you 
going?    It  is  a  deluge. 

(He  touches  his  dripping  hair. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  have  to  go  out.  I  shall  not 
be  long.  Beata  is  in  there,  crying  because  she 
wants  to  come  with  me.  Go  and  comfort  her, 
tell  her  that  perhaps  I  will  bring  her  back  some- 
thing beautiful. 

(Lucio  suddenly  takes  her  hands  and  looks 

her  fixedly  in  the  eyes. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Mistress  of  herself,  with  a 
clear  and  firm  accent.)  What  is  it,  Lucio? 

(He  casts  down  his  eyes.  She  withdraws  her 
hands,  shaking  his  as  if  in  a  farewell  greet- 
ing. The  temper  of  her  will  rings  out  in 
her  vivid  voice. 


14 


GIOCONDA. 


An  ri'roir!     Come,  Francesca.     It  is  time. 

(She  goes  out  rapidly,  followed  by  her  sister. 
Lucio  SETTALA  remains  with  bowed  head, 
staggering  under  a  thought  that  transfixes 
him. 

END   OF    T1IE   SECOND   ACT. 


THE    THIRD    ACT. 

.1  liiijh  and  spacious  room,  lighted  by  a  glass  roof, 
covered  'with  dark  awnings.  In  the  wall  at  the 
back  there  is  a  rectangular  opening,  somewhat 
larger  than  a  door,  leading  into  the  sculptor's 
Nlndio.  On  the  architrave  are  some  fragments 
of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon;  against  the  two 
.siilcs  are  two  large  winged  figures,  "clothed 
iritli  tin'  irind,"  the  Nike  of  Samothrace  and  the 
other  Nike  sculptured  by  Pceonius  for  the  Doric 
temple  of  Olyrnpia  consecrated  to  Zeus;  the 
opening  is  covered  by  a  red  curtain. 

In  l he  left  wall  there  is  a  door,  hidden  by  a  rich 
and  heavy  portiere;  in  the  left,  a  little  door  is 
hidden  by  curtains.  Wide  divans,  covered  with 
cloths  and  cushions,  surround  the  room.  The 
figures  are  arranged  carefully,  as  if  to  induce 
meditation  and  reverie:  a  bunch  of  corn  in  a 
copper  vase  stands  before  the  Eleusinian  bas- 
relief  of  Demeter;  a  litle  bronze  Pegasus  on  a 
pedestal  of  "verde  antico "  stands  before  the 
Ludovisi  Medusa. 

The  sentiment  expressed  by  the  aspect  of  the  place 
is  very  different  from  that  which  softens  the 
aspect  of  the  room  in  the  other  house,  over 
against  the  mystic  hill.  Here  the  choice  and 
analogy  of  every  form  reveals  an  aspiration 
loirards  a  carnal,  victorious,  and  creative  life. 
The  two  divine  messengers  seem  to  stir  and 
widen  the  close  atmosphere  incessantly  'with  the 
rush  of  their  immense  flight. 

SCENE  I. — SILVIA  SETTALA  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  having  laid  down  her  hat,  cloak, 
mill,  gloves.  She  seems  trying  to  remember  the 
things  about  her,  almost  to  renew  her  acquaint- 
ance with  them,  to  re-establish  a  communion 
with  them,  not  to  feel  estranged  from  them. 
She  represses  her  anguish  under  her  sister's 
eyes.  FRANCESCA  DONI  is  seated,  because  her 
knees  tremble  and  her  heart  beats  too  loud. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Looking  about  her.)  It  is 

strange;  it  seems  larger. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     What? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     The  room.  It  doesn't  seem  the 

same. 

(She    looks   about    her,    as   if   breathing   an 

unfamiliar  air.     An  interval  of  silence. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.     (Listening.)     Did  you  shut 

the  door? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Yes,  I  shut  it. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     We  shall  hear  her  open  it. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Are  you  afraid?     It  is  not 

time  yet.    In  a  minute  you  must  go. 
FRANCESCA  DONI.    Where? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Will  you  wait  for  me  in  the 

carriage,  in  "the  street? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     No,  it  is  impossible.    I  want 

In   lio   here,   to   lx-   near   you.     Could   I   not  hide 

myself! 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Hide  yourself,  here?    No.     I 

must  be  alone. 


FRANCESCA  DONI.  Have  pity  on  me!  I  shall 
die  of  suspense. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Wait.  There  ought  to  be  a 
secret  door  here. 

l  (liiiilrd  by  memory,  she  goes  towards  the  wall 
irlicrc  there  is  the  hidden  door;  looks,  finds 
it,  opens  it.    A  wave  of  light  falls  over  her. 
Did  you  see!     It  goes  from  here  into  the  model's 
room,  then  into  a  corridor.    At  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor there  is  a  door,  which  leads  to  the  Mugnone. 
Will  you  go  out  that  way? 

Ki;.\  \CKSCA  DONI.  Yes,  but  let  me  stay  in  the 
room  or  the  corridor  and  wait.  I  will  wait  till 
you  call. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  You  promise  to  wait  till  1 
call? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     Yes,  I  promise. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Do  not  fear.  See,  there  is 
the  sun  on  the  window. 

(Both  look  out  through  the  half -open  door, 
The  inner  light  shines  on  their  faces.  A 
luminous  streak  extends  over  the  floor. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  It  is  not  raining  now.  Look 
at  all  the  primroses  on  the  roadside. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Go  and  wait  on  the  roadside 
in- the  open  air.  Go. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  There  is  an  old  sick  horse, 
with  his  legs  in  the  water.  Do  you  see?  And  the 
swallows  skim  across  it.  I  think.  .  . 

(She  starts  and  turns  suddenly,  gazing  at  the 
motionless  folds  of  the  portiere. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     What  is  it? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     I  thought  I  heard.  .  . 

(Both  listen. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  No,  you  are  mistaken.  It  is 
still  early.  And  then  the  door  on  the  stairs  makes 
a  great  noise  when  it  closes.  Did  you  not  hear  it 
when  we  came  in?  The  walls  tremble. 

FRANCESCA   DONI.      (Imploringly.)      Silvia! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     What  is  it  now? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  Listen.  There  is  still  time. 
Come  away,  come  away  at  least  for  to-day!  Try,' 
at  least.  She  will  know  you  have  been  here.  We 
will  speak  to  the  caretaker  again.  You  ought  to 
leave  some  sign  here,  forget  a  glove,  for  instance. 
She  will  understand,  she  will  not  return. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  A  glove  enough?  Ah,  how 
easy  everything  is  for  your  heart! 

(She  looks  round   her  again,   with  a  secret 

despair. 
There  is  nothing  left  of  me,  here. 

(The  sister  remains   by   the   half -open   door, 
her   figure   partially   lit   up    by   the   vivid 
reflection.     Silvia   moves  some   paces  into 
the  room.     An  interval  of  silence. 
Kverything  seems  larger,  higher,  darker. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  It  is  the  shadow  that 
deceives  you.  There  is  not  much  light.  Draw 
back  the  awning  over  the  skylight. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     No,  it  is  better  like  this. 
(She  looks  in  every  corner,  as  if  seeking  a 

trace. 
Toll  mo  .  .  . 

(Her  voice  chokes  with  emotion. 

Thai  night  they  came  for  you,  and  you  hurried 
here.  You  were  here  at  the  very  beginning  .  .  . 

( Hesitates. 
Wlioro  was  he?     Do  you  remember  exactly  where? 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  There,  in  the  studio,  under 
the  statue.  No,  do  not  go! 


GIOCONDA. 


15 


(SILVIA   turns  towards  the  red  curtain  that 

hangs  between  the  two  Victories.     At  her 

feet,  like  a  dividing  line,  stretches  the  thin 

zone  of  the  sun. 

SILVIA     SETTALA.      (In    a    low    voice.)       The 

statue  is  there. 

FBANCESCA  DONI.     Do  not  go. 

(  SILVIA  remains  for  some  instants  motionless 
and  silent  before  the  closed  curtain,  from 
which  she  is  separated  by  the  shining  zone. 

Do  not  go! 

(SILVIA  steps  across  the  sunlight,  almost 
violently,  as  if  to  overcome  an  obstacle; 
with  a  rapid  movement  she  raises  the  cur- 
tain, slips  between  the  folds,  and  disap- 
pears. The  curtain  falls  behind  her,  heavy 
and  thick.  There  are  a  few  instants  of 
silence,  in  which  nothing  is  heard  but  the 
rapid  breathing  of  the  rister.  Suddenly, 
"tvithin  the  purple  depths,  appears  the  white 
face  of  SILVIA,  which  seems  irradiated  with 
the  light  of  the  masterpiece.  Her  bare 
hands,  as  they  put  aside  the  curtains,  seem 
to  shine  against  the  depths  of  colour.  Her 
eyes  are  intent,  icidened  by  wonder,  dazzled, 
not  by  a  vision  of  death,  but  by  an  image 
of  perfect  life.  The  water  gathers  tremu- 
lously in  her  eyes.  Two  marvellous  tears 
form  little  by  little,  shine,  and  sloivly  run 
down  her  cheeks.  Before  they  reach  her 
mouth  she  stops  them  icith  her  fingers, 
diffuses  them  over  her  face,  as  if  to  bathe 
in  lustral  dew;  for  it  is  not  by  the  remem- 
brance or  the  trace  of  human  bloodshed 
that  she  is  moved,  but  by  the  sight  of  a 
thing  of  beauty,  solitary  and  free.  She  has 
received  the  supreme  gift  of  beauty :  a  truce 
to  anguish,  a  pause  to  fear.  The  sublime 
lightning-flash  of  joy  has  shone  through 
her  wounded  soul  for  an  instant,  rendering 
it  crystalline  as  tears.  These  tears  are 
but  the  soul's  mute  and  ardent  offering 
before  a  masterpiece. 

Silvia,  Silvia,  you  are  weeping. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     (In  a  subdued  voice  with  a 

gesture  of  silence.)      Hush! 

(She  moves  away  from  the  curtain,  asking  in 

a  subdued  voice: 
Have  you  seen?  have  you  seen? 

FRANCESCA   DONI.      (Misunderstanding,   with  a 
st'art.)      Who?     Her?     Is  she  there? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     No,  the  statue. 

(The  sister   nods   her   head,    with   a   gesture 
expressing  rapt  admiration.     The  sound  of 
a  heavy  door  closing  is  heard.     Both  start. 
Sue  is  here.     Go,  go. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  (Holding  out  her  arms 
towards  her  irith  a  last  agonized  entreaty.)  Oh, 
my  sister ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Recovering  her  former 
energy.)  Go!  Do  not  fear. 

•  ( She  pushes  her  sister  out  through  the  door, 
and  closes  it.  The  zone  of  sun  disappears; 
the  room  returns  to  an  even  shadow. 

SCENE  II. — SILVIA  SETTALA  is  standing  with  her 
face  turned  toicards  the  door,  her  eyes  fixed 
almost  rigid  in  expectation.  Through  the  pro- 
found silence  is  heard  distinctly  the  turning  of 
the  kri/  in  the  lock.  SILVIA'S  atitude  does  not 
change.  A  hand  lifts  the  portiere.  GIOCONDA 
DIANTI  enters,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  At 


first  she  does  not  perceive  the  adversary,  since 
she  comes  from  the  light  into  the  shadow  and 
a  thick  veil  covers  her  whole  face.  When  she 
perceives  her,  she  stops,  with  a  choked  cry. 
Both  remain  for  some  instants  facing  one 
another  without  sepaking. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  ( With  a  firm  and  clear 

accent,  but  without  resentment  or  menace.)     I  am 

Silvia  Settala. 

(Her  rival  is  silent,  still  veiled.    A  pause. 
And  you? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  (In  a  low  voice.)  Do  you 
not  know,  Signora? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Still  restraining  herself.) 
I  know  only  that  you  have  entered  here,  as  into  a 
place  that  belongs  to  you.  You  find  me  here,  as 
in  mv  own  house.  One  of  us  two,  therefore 
usurps  the  right  of  the  other ;  one  of  us  two  is  the 
intruder.  Which?  (A  pause. 

I  perhaps?  • 

GIOCONDA  IVIANTI.  (Always  hidden  under  the 
veil,  and  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  lessen  her 
midacity.)  Perhaps. 

(  SILVIA  SETTALA  turns  paler  and  staggers  a 
little,  as  if  she  had  received,  a  blow. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Resolutely,  quivering  "with 
disdain.)  Well,  there  is  a  woman  who  has  drawn 
a  man  into  her  net  with  the  worst  allurements; 
who  has  torn  him  away  from  the  peace  of  home, 
the  nobility  of  art,  the  beauty  of  a  dream  which 
he  had  nourished  for  years  with  the  flowers  of  his 
force;  who  has  dragged  him  into  a  turbid  and 
violent  delirium,  where  he  has  lost  all  sense  of 
goodness  and  justice;  who  has  inflicted  on  him 
the  sharpest  torments  that  the  cruelty  of  a  tor- 
turer ,sick  with  ennui  could  desire;  who  has 
exhausted  and  withered  him  up,  keeping  a  per- 
verse fever  continually  alight  in  his  veins;  who 
has  rendered  life  intolerable  to  him;  who  has 
aj'ined  his  hand  and  turned  it  against  his  own 
life;  who  in  short,  has  known  that  he  was  lying 
wounded  to  death  on  a  far-off  bed,  for  days  and 
days,  while  a  ceaseless  fight  went  on  about  him 
against  death ;  and  who  has  not  had  remorse,  nor 
pity,  nor  shame,  but  has  gone  back  to  the  sinister 
place  before  the  blood  was  wiped  off  the  floor, 
meditating  another  attack  upon  her  prey,  await- 
ing him  again  at  the  journey's  end,  calculating 
one  by  one  .the  effects  of  her  temerity  and  of  her 
tenacity,  promising  herself  the  pleasure  of  another 
ruin.  There  is  a  woman  who  has  done  this,  who 
has  said:  "A  strong  and  noble  life  flourished 
freely  in  the  world ;  I  have  seized  it,  bent  it  back, 
beaten  it  down,  then  shattered  it  at  a  blow.  I 
thought  I  had  destroyed  it  for  ever.  And  lo!  it 
flourishes  again,  is  renewed,  re-arises,  can  put 
forth  fresh  flowers!  About  it  the  wounds  close, 
the  nains  are  calmed,  hope  springs  up  again,  joy 
can  smile!  Shall  I  endure  this  wrong?  Shall  I 
let  myself  be  thus  deluded?  No,  I  will  begin 
again.  I  will  nold  on,  I  will  overcome  all  resist- 
ance, I  will  be  implacable."  There  is  a  woman 
who  has  promised  this  to  herself,  who  has  gripped 
her  will  like  an  axe,  who  is  prepared  to  deliver 
fresh  blows  smiling.  Do  you  know  her?  She  has 
entered  here  with  her  face  covered,  she  has  spoken 
in  a  dull  voice,  she  has  let  fall  a  cold  word,  calcu- 
lating always  on  her  own  audacity  and  on  the 
other's  submissiveness.  Do  you  know  her? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  (Without  changing  her 
in  (inner.)  She  whom  I  know  is  different.  Only 
because  she  is  sad  in  your  presence,  does  she  sp«a.k 


16 


GIOCONDA. 


in  a  low  voice.  She  respects  the  great  and  sor- 
rowful love  tiiat  has  given  you  life;  she  admires 
the  virtue  that  exalts  you.  While  you  were 
speaking,  she  understood  that  it  was  only  in 
order  to  comfort  an  unutterable  despair  that  your 
words  had  created  a  figure  so  different  from  the 
real  person.  There  is  nothing  implacable  in  her ; 
but  she  herself  obeys  a  power  that  may  be 
implacable. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Bitter  and  haughty.)  I 
know  that  you  are  practised  in  all  tongues. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  Of  what  avail  is  this  harsh- 
ness? Your  first  words  had  another  sound;  and 
it  seemed,  when  you  asked  me  a  question,  that 
you  wanted  simply  to  know  the  truth. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     And  what  then  is  your  truth  ? 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  The  truth  that  matters, 
between  us,  is  one  only ;  truth  of  love.  You  know 
it.  But  I  fear  to  wound. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Do  not  fe^ir  to  wound. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  The  woman  against  whom 
you  made  such  accusations  was  ardently  loved, 
and — suffer  me  to  say  it! — with  a  glorious  love. 
She  did  not  abase  but  exalt  a  strong  life.  And 
since  the  last  voice  that  she  heard,  a  few  hours 
before  the  terrible  deed  was  accomplished,  the 
last  was  of  love,  she  believes  that  she  is  still  loved. 
And  this  is  the  truth  that  matters. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Blindly.)  She  is  wrong,  she 
is  wrong.  .  .  You  are  wrong!  He  loves  you  no 
longer,  he  loves  you  no  longer;  perhaps  he  has 
never  loved  you.  His  was  not  love  but  a  poison- 
ing, but  sharp  slavery,  madness,  and  thirst. 
When  he  suffered  on  his  pillow,  remembrance 
passed  through  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  like  a 
Hash  of  terror.  Weeping  at  my  feet,  he  has 
blessed  the  blood  that  was  poured  out  for  his 
ransom.  He  does  not  love  you.  he  does  not  love 
you ! 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  Your  love  cries  out  like 'a 
drowning  man. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  He  does  not  love  you!  You 
have  been  a  gad-fly  to  him,  you  have  made  him 
frantic,  you  have  driven  him  to  his  death. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  Not  I,  not  I,  have  driven 
him  to  his  death,  but  you  yourself.  Yes,  he 
wished  to  die,  that  he  might  cast  off  a  fetter,  but 
not  that  which  bound  him  to  me:  another,  yours, 
that  which  was  set  upon  him  by  your  virtue  or 
your  rule,  and  which  made  him  suffer  intolerably. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Ah,  there  is  nothing  that  you 
dare  not  travesty!  From  him,  from  his  own 
mouth,  in  an  hour  when  his  whole  soul  had  risen 
up  into  the  light,  from  him  I  heard  it:  "If  vio- 
lence is  enough  to  break  a  yoke,  let  it  be  blessed!" 
From  him  I  heard  it,  when  all  his  soul  opened 
again  to  the  truth. 

GIOCO.XDA  DIANTI.  But  here,  a  few  hours 
before  he  gave  way  to  the  horrible  thought,  here 
(all  these  things  are  witnesses  to  it)  he  said  to 
me  the  most  ardent  and  the  sweetest  words  of  all 
lii>  love;  here  he  once  more  caned  me  life  of  his 
life,  here  he  told  me  once  more  his  dream  of  for- 
get fulness,  of  liberty,  of  art,  of  joy.  And  here  he 
told  me  of  the  insupportableness  of  his  yoke,  the 
inevitable  weight  of  goodness,  more  cruel  than 
any  other,  and  the  horror  of  daily  suffering,  the 
repugnance  at  returning  to  the  house  of  silence 
and  tears,  the  repugnance  at  length  become 
unconquerable. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     No,  no.     ^  ou  lie. 


GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  To  escape  that  anguish,  one 
evening  when  all  seemed  to  him  sadder  and  more 
silent  than  ever,  he  sought  death.  .. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  You  lie,  you  lie !  I  was  far 
away. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  And  you  accuse  me  of  hav- 
ing inflicted  an  infamous  torment  upon  him,  of 
having  been  his  torturer!  Ah,  your  hands,  above 
all,  your  hands  of  goodness  and  pardon,  prepared 
for  him  every  night  a  bed  of  thorn,  on  which  he 
could  not  lie  down.  But,  when  he  entered  here 
where  I  awaited  him  as  one  awaits  the  creating 
God,  he  was  transformed.  Before  his  work  he 
recovered  strength,  joy,  faith.  Yes,  a  continual 
fever  burned  in  his  blood,  kept  alight  by  me  (and 
this  is  all  my  pride)  ;  but  the  fire  of  that  fever 
has  fashioned  a  masterpiece. 

(Points   towards   her  statue,   hidden   by   the 

curtain. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  It  is  not  the  first;  it  will  not 
be  the  last. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  Truly,  it  will  not  be  the 
last ;  because  another  is  ready  to  leap  forth  from 
its  covering  of  clay,  another  has  palpitated 
already  under  the  life-giving  thumb,  another  is 
half-alive,  and  awaits  from  moment  to  moment 
for  the  miracle  of  art  to  draw  it  wholly  forth  to 
the  light.  Ah,  you  cannot  understand  this 
impatience  of  matter  to  which  the  gift  of  perfect 
life  has  been  promised! 

(  SILVIA  SETTALA  turns  towards  the  curtain, 
takes  a  few  steps,  slowly,  as  if  involun- 
tarily, as  if  in  obedience  to  a  mysterious 
attraction. 

It  is  there ;  the  clay  is  there.  That  first  breath 
that  he  infused  into  it,  I  have  kept  alive  from 
day  to  day,  as  one  waters  the  furrow  where  the 
seed  lies  deep.  I  have  not  let  it  perish.  The 
impress  is  there,  intact.  The  last  touch,  which 
his  feverish  hand  set  upon  it  at  the  last  hour,  is 
visible  there,  energetic  and  fresh  as  yesterday,  so 
powerful  that  my  hope  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
agony  of  sorrow  is  set  there  with  a  seal  of  life, 
and  takes  strength  from  it. 

(SILVIA  SETTALA  pauses  in  front  of  the  cur- 
tain, as  before,  and  remains  motionless  and 
silent. 

Yes,  it  is  true,  you  watched  by  the  bedside  of  the 
dying  man,  intent  upon  a  ceaseless  strife  to  win 
him  back  from  death;  and  for  tuis  be  envied,  and 
for  this  be  praised  to  all  eternity.  You  had  strife, 
agitation,  effort:  you  had  to  accomplish  a  thing 
which  seemed  superhuman,  and  which  intoxicated 
you.  I,  slnit  out,  far  off,  in  solitude,  could  only 
gather  and  bind  up,  knitting  my  will  together, 
my  sorrow  in  a  vow.  My  faith  was  equal  to 
yours:  truly,  it  was  leagued  with  yours  against 
death.  The  last  creative  spark  of  his  genius,  of 
Hie  divine  lire  that  is  in  him,  I  have  not  let  it  go 
out.  I  have  kept  it  alive,  with  a  religious  and 
uninterrupted  vigilance.  Ah,  who  can  say  to 
what,  heignt  the  preserving  force  of  such  a  vow 
may  attain? 

(  SILVIA  SKTTALA  is  about   to  turn  violently, 

(ix  /'/'  In  reply,  but  restrains  herself. 
I  know,  I  know:  it  is  simple  and  easy  enough, 
what  I  have  done;  I  know:  it  is  no  heroic  effort, 
it  is  the  humble  duty  of  a  menial.  But  it  is  not 
the  act  that  matters.  What  matters  is  the  spirit 
in  which  the  act  is  accomplished;  the  fervour  of 
it  is  all  that  matters.  Isothing  is  more  sacred 
than  the  work  that  begins  to  live.  If  the  spirit 


GIOCONDA. 


17 


in  which  I  have  watched  over  it  can  reveal  itself 
to  your  soul,  go  and  see!  That  the  work  may  go 
on  living,  my  visible  presence  is  needful.  Realiz- 
ing this  necessity,  you  will  understand  how  in 
replying  "Perhaps"  to  a  question,  I  wished  to 
respect  a  aoubt  which  might  be  in  you,  but  which 
was  not  in  me,  which  is  not  in  me.  You  cannot 
feel  at  home  here  as  in  your  own  house.  This  is 
not  a  house.  Household  affections  have  no  place 
here;  domestic  virtues  have  no  sanctuary  here. 
This  is  a  place  outside  laws  and  beyond  common 
rights.  Here  a  sculptor  makes  his  statues.  He 
is  alone  here  with  the  instruments  of  his  art. 
Now  I  am  nothing  but  an  instrument  of  his  art. 
Nature  has  sent  me  to  him  to  bring  him  a 
message,  and  to  serve  him.  I  obey;  I  await  him 
to  serve  him  still.  If  he  entered  now,  he  could 
take  up  tue  interrupted  work  which  had  begun,  to 
live  under  his  fingers.  Go  and  see! 

(  SILVIA  SriTTALA  stands  before  the  curtain 
in'tJiout  advancing.  An  increasing  shiver 
shakes  her  whole  body,  betraying  her  inner 
agitation;  tchile  the  icords  of  her  rival 
become  more  and  more  sharp  and  stinging, 
,  definite,  and  at  last  hostile.  Suddenly  she 
turns,  panting,  impetuous,  resolved  upon 
the  last  defence. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  No.  It  is  useless.  •  Your 
words  are  too  clever.  You  are  practised  in  all 
tongues.  You  transform  into  an  act  of  love  and 
faith  what  is  only  an  act  of  policy  or  of  treachery. 
The  work  that  was  interrupted  should  have  per- 
ished. With  the  same  hand  that  had  impressed 
the  sign  of  life  upon  the  clay,  with  the  same  hand 
he  grasped  the  weapon  and  turned  it  against  his 
heart.  He  did  not  doubt  that  he  had  set  the 
deepest  of  gulfs  between  himself  and  his  work. 
Death  has  passed  there,  and  has  severed  every 
bond.  What  was  interrupted  should  be  lost. 
Xow  he  is  born  again,  he  is  a  new  man,  he  aspires 
towards  other  conquests.  In  his  eyes  there  is  a 
new  light :  his  strength  is  impatient  to  create 
other  forms.  All  that  is  behind  him,  all  that  is 
on  the  other  side  of  the  shadow,  has  no  longer  any 
power  or  value.  What  does  it  matter  to  him  that 
an  old  piece  of  clay  should  fall  into  dust?  He  has 
forgotten  it.  He  will  find  fresher  pieces,  into 
which  to  infuse  the  breath  of  his  new  birth  and 
to  model  into  the  image  of  the  idea  that  now 
inflames  him.  Away  with  the  old  clay!  How 
could  you  profess  to  think  that  you  were  necessary 
to  his  art?  Nothing  is  necessary  to  the  man  who 
creates.  All  converges  in  him.  You  say  that 
Nature  sent  you  to  him  to  bear  him  a  message. 
Well,  he  has  received  it,  he  has  understood  it, 
and  he  has  responded  to  it  with  a  sublime  expres- 
sion. \\hat  other  could  he  derive  from  you? 
What  other  could  you  give  him?  It  is  not  given 
to  man  to  attain  twice  the  same  summit,  to 
accomplish  twice  the  same  prodigy.  Y'ou  are  left 
there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  shadow,  far  off, 
alone,  on  the  old  earth.  He  goes  towards  the  new 
earth  now,  where  he  shall  receive  other  messages. 
His  strength  seems  virgin,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
world  is  infinite. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  (Taken  aback  by  the  unex- 
pected vigour  which  repels  her,  becoming  more 
acrid,  more  haughty  than  ever,  and  icith  an  air 
of  defiance.}  I  am  living  and  am  here;  and  he 
has  found  in  me  more  than  one  aspect,  and  the 
words  still  intoxicate  me  that  he  said  when  he 
spoke  to  me  of  his  vision,  different  every  morn- 
ing when  I  come  before  him.  Up  to  yesterday, 


certainly,  he  did  not  know  that  I  was  waiting  for 
him ;  and  his  unconsciousness  has  deceived  you. 
But  to-day  he  knows.  Do  you  understand?  He 
knows  that  I  am  here,  that  I  await  him.  This 
morning  a  letter  told  him,  a  letter  which  came 
into  his  hands,  which  he  has  read.  And  I  am 
certain — do  you  understand? — I  am  certain  that 
he  will  come.  Perhaps  he  is  on  the  way,  perhaps 
he  is  near  the  door.  Shall  we  wait  for  him? 

(An    extraordinary    change    comes    over    the 
face  of  SILVIA.     It  seems  as  if  something 
strange  and  horrible  enters  into  her.     She 
is   like   one  suddenly   caught  in   the  coils, 
writhing  in  the  fascination  of  the  serpent 
blindly.     The  ancient  fatality  of  deceit  sud- 
denly assails  the  soul  of  the  pure  woman, 
conquers  and  contaminates  it.     At  the  last 
'words    of    the    enemy    she    breaks   into    an 
unexpected    laugh,    bitter,    atrocious,    pro- 
vocative,   that  renders   her  '  unrecognisable. 
GIOCONDA  DIANTI  seems  overcome  by  it. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Enough,  enough.     Too  many 
words.     Ine  game  has  lasted  too  long.     Ah,  your 
certainty,  your  pride!     But  how. could  you  believe 
that  I  should  have  come  here  to  contest  the  way 
with  you,  to  forbid  your  entrance,  to  face  your 
audacity,  if  I  had  not  had  a  certainty  far  more 
sound  than  yours  to  warrant  me?       I  know  your 
letter  of  yesterday,  it  was  shown  to  me,  I  know 
not  if  with  more  astonishment  or  disgust. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTT.  (Overcome.)  No,  it  is  not 
possible ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  it  is  so.  As  for  the 
answer.  I  bring  it.  Lucio  Settala  has  lost  the 
memory  of  what  has  been,  and  asks  to  be  left  in 
peace.  He  hopes  that  your  pride  will  prevent  you 
from  becoming  importunate. 

GIOCONDA  DIANTI.  {Beside  herself.)  He  sends 
you?  he  himself?  It  is  his  answer?  His? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  His,  his.  I  would  have  spared 
you  this  harshness  if  ycu  had  not  forced  me.  Will 
you  go  now? 

(jriocoNDA  DIANTI.  (Her  voice  hoarse  with 
rage  and  shame.)  I  am  turned  out? 

(Fury  suffocates  her,  and  gives  her  a  frantic 
vigour.  The  vindictive  and  devastating 
wild  beast  seems  to  awaken  in  her. 
Through  her  flexible  and  powerful  body 
passes  the  same  force  'which  contracts  the 
homicidal  muscles  of  feline  animals  in 
ambush.  The  veil,  which  she  has  kept  on 
her  face  like  a  dark  mask,  renders  more  for- 
midable the  attitude  of  one  ready  to  do 
injury  in  any  way  and  icith  any  weapon. 
Turned  out? 

(  SILVIA  SETTALA  stands  convulsed  and  livid 
before  the  furious  woman,  and  it  is  not  the 
spectacle  of  that  fury  which  terrifies  her, 
but  something  'which  she  sees  within  her- 
self, something  horrible  and  irreparable: 
her  lie. 

Ah,  you  have  brought  him  to  this!  How?  how? 
Binding  the  soul  like  the  wound  with  cotton-wool  ? 
doctoring  him  with  your  soft  hands  ?  He  is 
unmade,  finished,  a  useless  rag.  I  understand; 
now  I  understand.  Poor  thing!  poor  thing!  Ah, 
why  is  he  not  dead,  rather  than  the  survivor  of 
his  soul?  He  is  finished,  then,  a  poor  beggar 
whom  you  lead  by  the  hand  in  the  empty  streets. 
All  is  destroyed,  all  is  lost.  He  will  never  lift 
his  head  again,  his  eye  is  darkened. 


18 


GIOCONDA.. 


SILVIA     SETTALA.       (Interrupting     her.)        Be 
silent,  be  silent!     He  is  living  and  strong;  never 
•  had  he  such  light  in  himself.     God  be  praised! 

GIOCONDA  DIAXTI.  (Frantically.)  It  is  not 
true.  I,  I  was  his  strength,  his  youth,  his  light. 
Tell  him!  Tell  him!  He  has  become  old;  from 
to-day  he  is  limp  and  soulless.  I  carry  away 
with  me  ( tell  him ! )  all  that  was  most  free, 
ardent,  and  proud  in  him.  The  blood  that  he 
poured  out  there,  under  my  statue,  was  the  last 
blood  of  his  youth.  What  you  have  re-infused 
into  his  heart  is  without  flame,  is  weak,  is  vile. 
Tell  him !  I  carry  away  with  me  to-day  all  that 
was  his  power  and  his  pride  and  his  joy  and  his 
all.  He  is  finished.  Tell  him! 

(Fury  blinds  and  suffocates  her.     It  is  as  if 
she  is  invaded  by  a  turbid  destructive  will, 
as  by  a  demon.    All  her  being  contracts  in 
the   necessity    of    accomplishing    an   imme- 
diate act  of  destruction.    A  sudden  thought 
precipitates  that  instinct  towards  an  aim. 
And  that  statue  which  is  mine,  which  belongs  to 
me,  which  he  has  made  out  of  the  life  that  I  have 
shed  from  me  drop  by  drop,  that  statue  which  is 
mine.  .  . 

(She  rushes   like  a  wild   beast   towards  the 
closed  curtain,  raises  it  and  passes  through. 
.  .  .  well,  I  will  shatter  it,  I  will  cast  it  down ! 
(  SILVIA    SETTALA   utters   a   cry,   and   rushes 
forward  to  prevent  the  crime.     Both  disap- 
pear behind  the  curtain.     The  rapid  breath- 
ing of  a  brief  struggle  is-  heard. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     (Crying  out.)      No,  no,  it  is 
not  true,  it  is  not  true!     I  lied! 

( The  despairing  icords  are  covered  by  the 
sound  oj  a  mass  that  inclines  and  falls,  the 
fracture  of  the  falling  statue;  then  follows 
another  lacerating  cry  from  Silvia,  torn  by 
agony  from  her  very  vitals. 

SCENE  IV. — FRANCESCA  DONI  appears,  'mad  with 
terror,  running  towards  the  cry,  which  she 
recognizes;  while  GIOCONDA  DIANTI  is  seen 
between  the  curtains,  still  veiled,  in  the  atti- 
l  inlc,  of  one  ivho  has  committed  a  murder  and 

'.  s-  to  escape. 
FRANCESCA  Doxi.     Assassin!     Assassin! 

(Kin:  stoops  to  succour  her  sister,  while  the 

niher  rushes  out. 

Silvia.   Silvia,  my   sister,  my  sister!      What  has 
.she  done  to  you.  what  has  she  done  to  you?    Ah, 
the  hands,  the  hands.  .  .  . 

(//'•/•  voice  expresses  the  horror  of  one  who 

sees  something  frightful. 

SILVIA    SETTALA.  'Take    me    away!      Take    me 
away ! 

FBAXCESCA    DOM.     My    God,   my   God!      They 
"  were  underneath!     My  God!     They  are  crushed! 
\\ater!  water!     There  is  none  here.     Wait. 

SILVIA    SKTTALA.     All,  what  agony!     I  cannot 
bear  it:   I  am  dying.     Take  me  away! 

(She  appears  between  the  red  curtains,  her 
fiirr    inexpressibly    contracted    by    agony, 
r.  her  sister  bends  to  support  her  two 
wrapped    in    a    piece    of   wet    cloth, 
from    the   clay,    through  which   {he 
blood  oozes. 
What  a<_'ony!     I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer. 

(,s'//r  in  tilinnt  t»  fiiint.  irhen  all  at  once  Lucio 
SKTTAI.A   ni^hr*  into  the  room  like  a  mad- 
X//r    /  i-'i/ililes,    fixing    on    him    her 
r//r.«    /'•;///    of    tears,    in    which    her 
dies. 


You,  you,  you! 

FKANCESCA  DONI.  (Still  supporting  the  two 
poor  crushed  hands  that  drench  the  cloth  in  which 
the  incurable  wreck  is  hidden.)  Support  her,  sup- 
port her !  She  is  falling. 

(Lucio  SETTALA  supports  the  poor  bleeding 
creature,  almost  fainting  in  his  arms.  But, 
before  losing  consciousness,  she  turns  her 
glazing  eyes  towards  the  curtains  as  if  to 
indicate  the  statue. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (In  a  dying  voice.)  It  ... 
is  safe. 

END   OF   THE   THIRD   ACT. 


THE    FOURTH    ACT. 

A  ground  floor  room,  white  and  simple,  with  tico 
side  wads  making  an  angle,  almost  entirely 
open  to  the  light,  which  comes  through  a  sort 
of  large  window,  after  the  manner  of  a  tepi- 
darium.  The  blinds  are  raised,  and  through 
the  window-panes  can  be  seen  oleanders,  tama- 
rinds, rushes,  pines,  golden  sands  dotted  'with 
dead  seaweed,  the  sea  calm  and  dotted  with 
lateen  sails,  the  peaceful  mouth  of  the  Arno, 
beyond  the  river  the  wild  thickets  of  Oombo, 
the  Cascine  di  San  Rossore,  the  far-off  marble 
mountain  of  Carrara. 

A  door,  leading  to  the  interior,  is  on  the  third 
side.  By  the  side  of  the  door,  on  a  bracket,  is 
the  Lady  with  the  bunch  of  flowers,  the  famous 
figure  of  Andrea  del  Verrocchio,  a  new  guest, 
come  from  the-  other  house,  like  a  faithful  coi: 
panion,  wnose  beautiful  hands  are  always  flaw- 
less, as  they  make  a  graceful  gesture  ro.r  " 
the  heart.  On  the  other  side  is  an  old  spinet, 
of  the  time  of  Elisa  Baciocchi,  Duchess  of 
Lucca,  with  its  case  of  dull  wood  inlaid  with 
bright  wood,  borne  by  little  gilded  Cariaiides 
in  the  Empire  style,  tenth  its  four  pedals  united 
in  the  form  of  a  small  harp. 

It  is  an  afternoon  in  September.  *The  smile  of 
vanishing  summer  seems  to  lay  an  enchantment 
over  everything.  In  the  deserted  room  the  soul 
of  music  sleeping  in  the  forgotten  instrument 
makes  itself  felt,  as  if  the  hidden  strings  were 
touched  by  the  calm  rhythm  of  the  neighboring 
sea. 

SCENE  I. — SILVIA  SETTALA  appears  on  the  thresh- 
old, from  the  inner  room;  she  pauses;  takes 
several  steps  towards  the  window;  looks  into 
the  distance,  looks  about  her  with  infinitely  sad 
ei/es.  In  her  way  of  moving  there  is  a  sense  of 
something  wanting,  calling  up  a  vague  image 
of  clipped  wings,  a  vague  sentiment  of  strength 
humbled  and  shorn,  of  nobility  brought  low,  of 
broken  harmony.  She  is  dressed  in  an  ash- 
coloured  gown,  with  a  hem  of  black,  like  a 
thread  of  mourning.  Long  sleeves  hide  her 
linns  without  hands,  which  she  sometimes  lets 
drop  by  her  side,  and  sometimes  sets  together, 
drawn  a  little  back,  as  if  to  hide  them  in  the 
folds,  with  a  movement  of  shame  and  sorroio. 

From  outside,  between  the  thick  oleanders, 
appears  a  girlish  figure,  LA  SIRENETTA,  half 
I'niry  and  half  beggar  girl,  peering  in.  She 
<ili<l<-n  hnnirdft  the  window  with  a  furtive  step, 
InililiiH/  u/i  in  one  hand  a  fold  of  her  apron  filled 
irilh  seaweed,  shells,  and  star-fish. 


GIOCONDA. 


19 


SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Catching  sight  of  her,  and 
going  towards  her  with  a  smile.)  Oh,  la  Siren- 
•etta !  Come,  come. 

LA  SIRENETTA.  (Coming  forward  to  the  win- 
•dow.)  Do  you  remember  me? 

(She  remains  outside  so  that  her  face  is  seen 
through  the  shimmer  of  the  glass,  which 
seems  to  continue  about  her  the  incessant, 
tremulous  radiance  of  the  sea.  She  is 
young,  slender,  graceful;  her  yellow  hair 
is  in  disorder,  her  face  the  colour  of  ruddy 
gold,  her  teeth  white  as  the  bones  of  the 
cuttle-fish,  her  eyes  humid  and  sea-green, 
her  neck  long  and  thin,  with  a  necklace  of 
shells  about  it;  in  her  whole  person  some- 
thing inexpressibly  fresh  and  glancing, 
which  makes  one  think  of  a  creature 
impregnated  with  sea-salt,  dipped  in  the 
moving  waters,  coming  out  of  the  hiding- 
places  of  the  rocks.  Her  petticoat  of  striped 
white  and  blue,  torn  and  discoloured, 
falls  only  just  below  the  knees,  leaving  her 
legs  bare;  her  bluish  apron  drips  and 
smells  of  the  brine  like  a  filter;  her  bare 
feet,  in  contrast  'with  the  brown  colour 
that  the  sun  has  given  her  flesh,  are  singu- 
larly pallid,  like  the  roots  of  aquatic  plants. 
And  her  voice  is  limpid  and  childish;  and 
some  of  the  words  that  she  speaks  seem  to 
light  up  her  ingenuous  face  with  a  mys- 
terious happiness. 
;Do  you  remember  me,  pretty  lady? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  remember  you;  I  remember 
•you. 

LA  SIRENETTA.  Do  you  remember  me?  Who 
:am  I? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Are  you  not  la  Sirenetta? 
LA  SIRENETTA.     Yes,  you  have  remembered  me. 
When  did  you  come  back? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Not  long  ago. 
LA  SIRENETTA.     You  will  stay? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     A  long  time  longer. 
LA  SIRENETTA.     Till  the  winter,  perhaps. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Perhaps. 
LA  SIRENETTA.     And  your  little  girl? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     I  expect  her  to-day.     She  is 
•coming. 

LA  SIRENETTA.     Beata!     Isn't  she  called  Beata? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Yes,  Beata. 
LA  SIRENETTA.     You  called  her  that,  Beata,  not 
Beatrice.     When  she  was  here,  she  asked  me  every 
•day  for  a  star-fish,  stars  of  the  sea.     Did  she  tell 
you?    She  made  me  sing.    Did  she  tell  you? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  she  told  me.  She 
remembers  you.  She  likes  you. 

LA  SIRENETTA.  She  likes  me!  I  know.  She 
gave  me  some  of  her  bread  every  day. 

SILVIA  JSETTALA.  You  shall  have  it  every  day, 
if  you  like.  Bread  and  food,  Sirenetta,  morning 
and  night,  whenever  you  like.  Remember. 

LA  SIRENETTA.  Morning  and  night  I  will 
bring  you  a  siar-fish.  Will  you  have  one?  A 
pretty  one,  larger  than  a  hand? 

(  SILVIA   SETTALA,    troubled,  draws  back   her 

arms  icith  an  instinctive  movement. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  No,  no,  keep  it  for  Beata. 
LA  SIRENETTA.      (Surprised.)      Won't  vou  have 
It? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Tell  me  instead  what  you  do 
with  your  life,  tell  me  how  you  spend  the  day. 
Is  it  true  that  ycu  talk  with  the  sirens  of  the  sea? 
"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Sirenetta. 


LA  SIRENETTA. 

Seven  sisters  were  we, 

Our   mirror   the   fountain-head, 

All  of  us  fair  to  see. 

''Flower  of  the  bulrush  makes  no  bread, 

Hedgerow   mulberry   makes   no   wine. 

Blade  of  grass  no  linen  fine," 

The  mother  to  the  sisters  said; 

All  of  us  fair  to  see, 

And  our  mirror  the  fountain-head. 

The  first  was  fain  to  spin, 

And  wished  for  spindles  of  gold ; 

The  second  to  weave  threads  in, 

And  wished  for  shuttles  of  gold ; 

The  third  to  sew  at  her  leisure, 

And  wished  for  needles  of  gold : 

The  fourth  to  cook  for  her  pleasure, 

And  wished  for  platters  of  gold ; 

The  fifth  to  sleep  beyond  measure, 

And  wished  for  dreams  of  gold ; 

The  sixth  to  sleep  night  away, 

And  wished  for  coverings  of  gold ; 

j'he  last  to  sing  all  day, 

To  sing  for  evermore, 

And  wished  for  nothing  more. 
(She   laughs   icith  a   quick   glittering    laugh 
that   seems   to    tinkle   against   her  shining 
teeth. 
Do  you  like  this  story? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Charmed  by  the  grac.e  of  the 
simple  creature.)  Is  that  all?  Why  don't  you 
go  on? 

LA  SIRENETTA.  If  you  sit  here,  I  will  put  you 
to  sleep,  as  I  put  your  child  to  sleep  on  the  sands. 
Are  you  not  sleepy  now?  Sleep  is  good,  in 
September. 

September  bears  to  the  plain 

The  windy  breath  of  the  mountain  rain. 

And  puts  the  summer  to  sleep  again. 

Amen. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  No.  Go  on  with  your  story, 
Sirenetta. 

LA  SIRENETTA — 

The  olive  darkens  for  shedding. 

Sorrow  speeds  the  wedding, 

Oil  and  tears  wait  for  the  treading. 
SILVIA    SETTALA.      Go     on     with    your    story, 
Sirenetta. 

±JA  SIRENETTA.     Where  had  we  got? 
SILVIA    SETTALA.      "And    wished    for    nothing 
more!"  '(J.  pause. 

LA  SIRENETTA.     Ah,  here  it  is: 

"Flowers  of  the  bulrush  makes  no  bread, 

Hedgerow  mulberry  makes  no  wine, 

Blade  of  grass  no  linen  fine," 

The  mother  to  the  sisters  said : 

All  of  us  fair  to  see, 

And  our  mirror  the  fountain-head. 

And  so  the  first  one  spun 

Her  own  heart's  woe  for  the  morrow  ; 

And  so  the  second  wove. 

And  wove  the  cloth  of  sorrow: 

And  so  the  third  one  sewed 

A  poisoned  shirt  to  wear; 

And  so  the  fourth  one  cooked 

A  dish  of  heart's  despair : 

And  so  the  fifth  one  slept 

Under  the  coverings  of  death ; 

And  so  the  sixth  one  dreamt 

In  the  arms  of  death. 

The  mother  wept  full  sore. 

And  sighed  away  her  breath; 


20 


GIOCONDA. 


But  the  last,  that  only  sang 

To  sing,  to  sing  all  day, 

To  sing  for  evermore, 

Found  her  a  happy  fate. 

(She   loivers   her  voice  and   makes   it   secret 

and  remote. 
Ine  sirens  of  the  bay 

Called  her  to  be  their  mate.  (A  pause. 

SILVIA  bETTALA.  Then  it  is  true  that  you  talk 
with  the  sirens? 

LA  SIREXETTA.  (Putting  her  forefinger  to  her 
Jit/x. )  Mustn't  ask ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Is  it  true  that  no  one  knows 
where  you  sleen  at  night? 

LA  SIREXETTA.  (With  the  same  gesture.) 
Mustn't  ask ! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Shall  I/ give  you  shelter,  here 
in  the  house? 

LA  SIREXETTA.  (Looking  intently  in  her  face, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  the  question.)  Your  eyes 
are  sad.  I  did  not  know  what  troubled  me  when 
I  looked  at  them.  Xow  I  see:  you  have  a  great 
sorrow  in  your  eyes.  Some  one  of  yours  is  dead. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     You  alone  can  comfort  me. 
'  LA  OIREXETTA.     Who  of  yours  is  dead  ? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Mustn't  ask! 
LA   SIREXETTA.     Xow  I   see  you :    you  are  not 
the  same.  I  was  thinking  of  a  swallow,  last  Sep- 
tember,  who   had   lost   his   longest   feathers,   and 
was  nearly  drowned  in  the  sea.     What  have  they 
done   to   you?     Something  wicked   has  been  done 
to  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Mustn't  ask! 

(Instinctively    she    hides    her  "arms    without 

hands  in  the  folds  of  her  garment,  with  a 

sorrowful  movement,  which-  does  not  escape 

the  notice  of  the  beivitching  creature;  who 

suddenly,  as  if  intentionally,  drops  the  end 

of  uer  apron,  so  that  her  little  sea  treasure 

falls  and  is  scattered  over  the  ground. 

LA      SIREXETTA.       (Stooping     and     choosing.) 

Will  you  have  a  star-fish,  a  pretty  one,  bigger  than 

a  hand  ?     Look ! 

( She  shows  the  mutilated  woman  a  large  sea- 

.s-/</r  irith  five  rays. 
Take  it!  I  give  it  to  you. 

( The   mutilated  woman  shakes   her   head  in 
sign  of  refusal,  pressing  her  lips  together, 
as  if  to  keep  down  the  knot  that  tightens 
in  her  throat. 
Can't  you?     Are  your  hands  sick,  tied  up? 

( The  mutilated  woman  nods  her  head.  LA 
S  i  UKX  ETTA'S  voice  becomes  tremulous  with 
pity. 

Did  you  fall  into  the  fire?  Were  you  burnt? 
Do  they  still  hurt?  Or  are  they  getting  better? 

SILVIA  SKTTALA.  (In  a  scarcely  audible  voice.) 
I  haven't  any  hands. 

LA     SIKENETTA.      (Rising    in    affright.)       You 
haven't  any!     They  have  cut  them  off  ?    No  hands? 
( The  mutilated  woman  nods  her  head,  fright- 
fully pale.     The  other  shivers  with  horror. 
No,  no,  no!     It  isn't  true!  , 

<  She  keeps  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  folds  of  the 
f/'irment    in   which    the    mutilated   woman 
hides  her  arms. 
Tell  me  it  .sn  i,  true. 

SILVIA   SETTALA.     I   haven't  any  hands. 

LA  SIRENETTA.     Why?  why? 

SILVIA  SKTTALA.     Mustn't  ask! 

LA  SIREXETTA.     Ah,  what  a  cruel  thing! 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     I  gave  them  away. 


LA    SIREXETTA.     You    gave    them    away?      To 
whom  ? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  To  my  love. 
^A  ..IREXETTA.  Ah,  what  a  cruel  love!  How 
beautiful  they  were,  how  beautiful !  Do  you 
think  I  don't  remember?  I  have  kissed  them; 
many,  many  times.  I  have  kissed  them  with  this 
mouth.  They  gave  me  bread,  a  pomegranate,  a 
cup  of  milk.  They  were  as  beautiful  as  if  the 
dawn  had  made  them  with  a  breath,  as  white  as 
the  flower  of  the  foam,  mora  delicate  than  the 
embroidery  that  the  wind  makes  on  the  sand ;  they 
moved  like  the  sun  in  the  water,  they  talked 
better  than  the  tongue  or  the  eyes,  they  said  kind 
words ;  what  they  gave  turned  to  gold.  I  remem- 
ber them!  I  see  them,  I  see  them.  One  day  they 
were  playing  with  the  warm  sand:  the  sand  ran 
between  the  fingers  as  through  a  sieve,  and  they 
were  pleased  at  playing;  and  Beata  looked  at 
them  and  laughed ;  and  I  looked  at  them  and  had 
the  same  pleasure.  One  day  they  peeled  an 
orange ;  and  made  it  into  many  pieces,  and  touched 
me  with  one  of  them,  and  it  was  as  sweet  as  a 
honeycomb.  One  day  they  wrapped  a  handker- 
chief about  the  little  one's  foot,  and  she  was  cry- 
ing because  a  crab  had  nipped  her,  and  the  pain 
stopped  all  at  once,  and  the  little  one  began  to- 
run  along  the  shore.  One  day  they  played  with 
those  lovely  curls,  and  of  every  curl  they  made 
a  ring  for  every  finger,  and  then  began  over  again y 
and  then  Degan  over  again,  and  Beata  fell  asleep 
with  the  dew  on  her  lips. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (In  a  choking  voice.)  Don't 
say  any  more !  don  t  say  any  more ! 

LA  SIREXETTA.     Ah,  what  a  cruel  love! 

(A  pause.     She  remains  pensive. 
Ana  where  are  they?     Far  away,  all  alone,  in  the  . 
earth  deep  down.     Did  they  bury  them?     Where? 
In  a  pretty  garden? 

(A  pause.  The  mutilated  woman  shuts  her 
eyes  and  leans  her  head  against  the  irin- 
dow,  in  -which  the  quiver  of  the  sea  is 
reflected. 

Did  you  see  them  taken  away?  How  white  they 
were!  Ihey  have  wrapped  them  up  in  strong 
ointment.  And  the  rings?  With  all  the  rings? 
There  was  one  with  a  green  stone,  and  one  with 
three  pearls,  and  one  of  gold  and  iron  twisted, 
and  a  smooth  one,  a  shining  hoop,  and  only  that 
one  was  on  tne  third  finger. 

(A  pause.     An  indefinable  expression  appears 
on  the  face  of  the  mutilated  tcoman,  as  she 
lets  her  arms  drop  by  her  side,   while  the 
rigidity   of  her  whole   body   slackens. 
What    are    you    thinking    about?      Dreaming    of 
them?     If  they  should  grow  warm  again.  .  .  . 

( The   mutilated   woman   opens   her  eyes   and 
starts,  as  if  suddenly  awakened.     Her  arms 
quiver. 
What  is  the  matter? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  It  is  strange.  Sometimes  it 
realiy  seems  to  me  as  if  I  have  them  again,  I  seem 
to  feel  the  blood  rise  to  the  tips  of  my  fingers. 
When  you  spoke,  I  had  them:  they  \\crc  more 
beautiful,  Sirenetta! 

LA  SIREXETTA.  More  beautiful? 
SILVIA  SETTALA.  You  will  comfort  me,  Siren- 
etta. I  cannot  take  your  star-fish,  but  I  can  see 
your  eyes  and  hear  your  voice.  Keep  near  me, 
now  I  have  found  you  again  I  would  like  to  have 
you  for  a  sister. 

LA  SIREXETTA.  I  would  like  you  to  have  my 
hands,  if  they  were  not  so  rough  and  dark. 


GIOCONDA. 


21 


SILVIA  SETTALA.  Your  hands  are  happy  hands: 
they  touch  the  leaves,  the  flowers,  the  sand,  the 
water,  the  stones,  children,  animals,  all  innocent 
things.  You  are  happy,  Sirenetta:  your  soul  is 
born  again  every  morning;  now  it  is  little  as  a 
pearl,  and  now  it  is  large  as  the  sea.  You  have 
nothing  and  everything;  you  know  nothing  and 
everything. 

LA  SIREXETTA.  (  Turning  suddenly  and  inter- 
rupting her.)  Did  you  feel  the  gust?  Look,  look 
how  many  swallows  on  the  sea!  There  are  more 
than  a  thousand:  a  living  cloud.  Look  how  they 
shine!  Now  they  are  off;  they  are  going  on  a 
long  journey,  to  a  far-away  land;  the  shadow 
walks  over  the  water  with  them;  some  feathers 
are  falling:  evening  will  come  on;  they  will  meet 
the  ships  on  the  high  sea  ;  they  will  see  the  fires, 
hear  the  songs  of  the  sailors;  the  sailors  will  see 
them  pass:  they  will  pass  close  to  the  sails;  one 
of  them  will  strike  against  the  sails,  and  fall  on 
the  deck,  tired.  One  night,  a  cloud  of  tired  swal- 
lows fell  upon  a  ship  like  a  flock  of  starlings  on 
the  deck  and  quite  covered  it.  The  sailors  never 
touched  them.  They  never  moved,  for  fear  of 
frightening  them  ;  they  never  spoke,  so  that  they 
niijjnt  go  to  sleep.  And  as  they  were  all  over  the 
stock  of  tne  anchor  and  the  bar  of  the  rudder, 
tnat  night  the  ship  went  drifting  under  the  moon. 
T5ut  at  dawn  .  .  .  Ah,  who  is  calling  to  you? 

iN//r   interrupts  her  dream,  hearing  a  strange 
voice  among  the  oleanders;  and  prepares  to 

fly- 

<Goou-bye,  good-bye. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Anxiously.)  It  is  my  sis- 
ter. Do  not  run  away,  do  not  go,  Sirenetta.  Stay 
Tiere  near.  Beata  is  coming. 

LA  SIREXETTA.  Good-bye,  good-bye.  I  will 
•come  back. 

(Rtins   towards    the   sea,   vanishing   into   the 
sunlight. 


II.  —  I-RAXCESCA  Doxi  appears  between  the 

oleanders,   followed    by    the   old   man,   LORENZO 

GADDI. 

FRAXCESCA  DONI.  Do  you  see  who  I  am  bring- 
ing you? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  .  (Anxiously.)  And  Beata? 
And  Beata? 

•FRAXCESCA  Doxi.  She  is  coming  presently.  I 
left  her  with  Faustina.  I  came  beforehand,  so 
that  she  should  not  come  to  you  unexpectedly. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Dear  Maestro,  how  pleased  I 
iun  to  see  you! 

I  The  old  man  instinctively  stretches  out  his 
hands  towards  her.  She  bends  slightly 
a  iid  offers  him  her  forehead,  which  he 
touches  with  his  lips. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  (Concealing  his  emotion.) 
How  happy  I  am  to  see  you'  again,  dear  Silvia,  and 
to  see  you  up  and  well  again!  The  sea  helps  you. 
The  sea  is  always  the  great  comforter.  At  Forte 
del  Marmi.  yonder,  I  thought  much  of  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Is  Forte  dei  Marmi  far  from 
"here  ? 

LOREXZO  GADDI.  (Pointing  to  the  distant 
shore.  )  Yonder,  unuer  Serravizza,  on  this  side  of 
jVIassa. 

(  They  look  out  of  the  window  into  the  distance. 

FRAXCESCA  Doxi.  How  well  one  can  see  the 
mountains  of  .Carrara  to-day!  You  can  count  the 
pea.vs  one  by  one.  I  never  remember  a  clearer 
day  than  this.  Who  was  with  you,  Silvia? 
La  Sirenetta  ?  I  thought  I  saw  her  running 


towards  the  sea.  And  then  here  are  her  traces: 
seaweed,  shells,  star-fish.  * 

(She  points  to  the  childish  treasures  scat- 
tered over  the  ground. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  she  was  with  me  just 
now. 

LOREXZO  GADDI.     Who  is  la  Sirenetta? 

FRAXCESCA  Doxi.  A  little  wandering  mad 
creature. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  A  seer,  who  has  the  gift  of 
song :  a  creature  of  dream  and  truth,  who  seems 
a  spirit  of  the  sea.  You  should  know  her  and  love 
her  as  I  do.  v»  nen  you  know  her  and  hear  her 
speak,  you  find  out  many  deep  things.  Truly  she 
will  seem  to  you  perfect:  she  always  gives  and 
never  asks. 

LOREXZO  GADDI.     She  is  like  you  in  that. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Alas,  no.  I  should  like  to 
have  been  like  her  in  that;  but  the  light  died 
away  before  the  deceit  of  life.  What  blindness! 
I  asked  so  much,  that  to  obtain  it,  I  stooped  to 
tell  a  lie:  I  came  out  mutilated,  maimed,  in 
punishment  for  my  life.  I-  had  stretched  out  my 
hands  too  violently  towards  a  good  thing  that 
fate  denied  me.  I  do  not  lament  or  weep.  Since 
I  must  live,  I  will  live.  Perhaps  one  day  my  soul 
will  be  healed.  I  felt  some  hope  arise  in  me,  as 
I  listened  %to  the  voice  of  that  simple  and 
guileless  creature  who  can  teach  eternal  things. 
She  has  promised  to  bring  me  a  star-fish  every 
morning.  . 

(She  tries  to  smile.  The  sister  stands  near 
the  window  and  seems  to  be  'looking 
intently  at  the  distant  mountains;  but 
there  is  a  shadow  of  sadness  over  her  gentle 
face. 

Look.  Maestro,  at  the  lady  with  the  bunch  of 
flowers.  She  has  come  with  me.  Now,  if  I  look 
at  her,  there  is  something  mournful  in  her  for 
me:  all  the  same  I  could  not  separate  myself 
from  her.  Do  you  remember,  Maestro,  that  day 
in  April,  that  garlanded  head? 

LOREXZO  GADDI.     I  remember,  I  remember: 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     The  new  life! 

LOREXZO  GADDI.  There  was  an  omen  in  every- 
thing. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  When  I  see  the  camels  pass 
loaded  with  faggots,  there,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Arno,  in  the  thickets  of  Gombo,  I  think  of 
the  arrival  of  Cosimo  Dalbo,  of  the  joy  of  that 
evening,  of  the  scarab»us  that  I  put  in  the  midst 
of  a  bunch  of  roses  that  Beata  had  picked. 
(Turns  toicards  her  sister.)  O  Francesca,  I 
speak,  and  all  the  while  my  heart  troubles  me  so 
that  I  can  resist  no  longer.  Where  is  Beata? 

FRAXCESCA  Doxi.  (Wrung  with  pain.)  You 
want  to  see  her  now?  You  are  strong? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  strong,  I  am 
ready.  Suspense  is  worse. 

FRAXCESCA  Doxi.  Then  I  will  go  and  bring  her 
to  you. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  (Unable  to  contain  //••/• 
anxiety.)  Wait  a  minute.  Will  you  not  star 
with  us  here  to-night.  Maestro?  I  should  be  glad. 

LOREXZO  GADDI.     Well,  yes.  I  will  stay. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  We  can  put  you  up.  I  will 
have  your  room  got  ready.  Wait,  Francesca.  a 
minute. 

(She  is  convulsed  with  emotion,  which  she 
can  no  longer  restrain.  Xlte  goes  towards 
the  door  like  one  who  runs  away  to  hide 
the  tears  that  are  about  to  break  forth. 

FRAXCESCA  Doxi.     Shall  I  come,  Silvia  ? 


GIOCONDA. 


SILVIA  SETTALA.  ( With  a  choking  voice. )  No, 
no.  (Goes  out. 

FRANCESCA  DOM.  Ah,  the  curse,  the  curse! 
Do  you  see  her?  While  she  was  in  bed,  under  the 
beddotnes,  bound  up,  bleeding,  all  the  horror  of 
the  thing  did  not  appear.  But  now  that  she  is 
on  her  feet  again,  now  that  she  moves,  walks, 
sees  her  friends,  returns  to  her  old  ways,  is  about 
to  use  the  gestures  that  she  used  to  use !  Think 
of  it! 

LORENZO  GADDI.  Yes,  it  is  too  frightful  a  fate. 
I  remember  what  you  said  to  her  so  tenderly,  as 
you  looked  at  her,  on  that  day  in  April:  "You 
-ccin  as  if  you  had  wings!"  The  beauty  and 
lightness  of  her  hands  gave  her  the  aspect  of  a 
winged  thing.  There  was  in  her  a  kind  of  inces- 
>ant  ([iiivcr.  Xow  it  is  as  if  she  dragged  herself 
along. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.  And  it  was  a  useless  sacri- 
fice, like  all  the  others;  it  has  done  nothing, 
changed  nothing:  that  is  where  it  is  so  frightful 
a  fate.  If  Lucio  had  stayed  with  her,  I  believe 
she  would  have  been  happy  to  have  been  able  to 
give  that  last  proof,  to  'have  been  able  to  sacrifice 
for  him  her  living  hands.  But  she  knows  now 
all  the  truth,  in  all  its  nakedness.  Ah,  what  an 
infamous  thing!  Would  you  have  believed  that 
Lucid  was  capable  of  it?  Tell  me. 

LORENZO  GADDI.  He  too  has  his  faie,  and  he 
obeys  it.  As  he  was  not  master  of  his  death,  so 
he  is  not  master  of  his  life.  I  saw  him  yester- 
day. He  had  written  me  at  Forte  dei  Marmi  to 
ask  me  to  go  to  the  quarry  and  send  him  a  block. 
I  saw  him  yesterday  in  his  studio.  His  face  is  so 
thin  that  it  seems  burnt  up  in  the  fire  of  his  eyes. 
When  he  speaks,  he  becomes  strangely  excited.  It 
troubled  me.  He  works,  works,  works,  with  a 
terrible  fury:  perhaps  he  is  seeking  to  rid  him- 
self of  a  thought  that  gnaws  him. 

FRANCESCA  DONI.     The  statue  is  still  there? 

LORENZO  GADDI.  It  is  still  there,  without  arms. 
lie  lias  left  it  so:  he  would  not  restore  it.  So, 
on  the  pedestal,  it  looks  really  line  an  ancient 
marble,  dug  up  in  one  of  the  Cyclades.  There  is 
in  it  something  sacred  and  tragic,  after  the  divine 
immolation. 

Fii\\(  KSCA  DONI.  (In  a  low  voice.)  And  that 
woman,  the  Gioconda,  was  there? 

LIU:K.\ZO  GADDI.  She  was  there,  silent.  When 
one  looks  at  her,  and  thinks  that  she  is  the  cause 
of  so  much  evil,  truly  one  cannot  curse  her  in  his 
heart;  no,  one  cannot,  when  one  looks  at  her.  I 
have  never  seen  so  great  a  mystery  in  mortal 
flesh. 

i  use.  The  old  man  and  the  sister  remain 
in  thought,  for  some  instants,  with  bowed 
lands. 

KI:A\<  KSCA  DONI.  (Sighing  because  of  the 
<i  a  n  a  ink  that  oppresses  her.)  My  God,  my  God! 
And  now  it  is  time  to  bring  Beata  to  her  mother, 
and  they  will  see  one  another  again,  after  all 
that  has  happened;  and  the  little  one  will  learn 
the  truth,  will  know  the  horrible  thing.  How  is 
one  to  hide  it  from  her,  remembering  all  her 
<an-ses,  and  mad  for  them!  You  saw  her,  you 
heard  her  of  old. 

(  SILVIA  SETTALA  reappears  on  the  threshold. 
Her  eyes  are  burning  and  all  her  body  is 
contracted  by  a  spasmodic  force. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  I  am  here,  Francesca;  I  am 
ready.  The  room  is  ready,  Maestro,  if  you  would 
like  to  go  to  it. 


LORENZO  GADDI.  (Going  toicards  her,  and  in  a 
r<iic>'  trembling  with  emotion.)  Courage!  It  is- 
the  last  ordeal. 

(He  goes  out  by  the  door.  The  mutilated 
ironian  goes  towards  her  sister,  breath- 
lessly. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Now  go,  go!  Bring  her.  I 
will  wait  here. 

(The  sister  puts  her  arms  round. -her  neck 
and  kisses  her  in  silence.  Then  she  goes 
out  towards  the  sea,  and  disappears  rapidly- 
among  the  oleanders. 

SCENE  III. — SILVIA  SETTALA,  breathlessly,  looks 
through  the  midst  of  the  boughs  lighted  by  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  sun.  The  hour  is  exquisitely- 
peaceful.  The  light  is  more  limpid  than  the 
irindows  of  the  white  room;  the  sea  is  tran- 
quil as  the  flower  of  the  flax,  so  motionless  that 
the  long  reflections  of  the  mirrored  sails  seem 
to  touch  the  bottom;  the  stream  seems  to  create 
that  immense  repose,  pouring  out  the  perennial 
ivuve  of  its,  peace;  the  health-giving  icoods, 
penetrated  with  fluid  gold,  rejoice  marvellously, 
almost  as  if  they  lost  their  roots  that  they 
might  swim  in  the  delight  of  their  odour;  the 
marble  Alps  in  the  distance  trace  a  line  of 
beauty  on  the  sky,  in  which  they  seem  to  reveal 
the  dream  arising  out  of  their  imprisoned  popu- 
lace of  sleeping  statues. 

(LA    SIRENETTA    reappears    in    the    silence, 

through  which  her  pure  voice  is  heard. 
LA  SIRENETTA.     Are  you  alone  ? 
SILVIA     SETTALA.      (Agitated. )       Yes.       I    am 
waiting. 

LA  SIRENETTA.  (Coming  close  to  her.)  Have 
you  been  crying? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Yes,  a  little. 
LA    SIRENETTA.      ( With    infinite    pity. )       You 
seem  as  if  you  had  been  crying  for  a  year.     Your 
eyes    are    burning.      Your    heart    hurts    you    too 
much. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.  Don't  speak.  I  cannot  crush 
my  heart. 

(She  presses' herself  against  the  trunk  of  the 
nearest  oleander,  convulsed,  no  longer  able 
to  endure  the  agony  of  waiting. 
She  is  coming  now,  she  is  coming  now. 

(She  moves  away  from  the  tree  and  re-enters 
the  room,  as  if  seized  with  terror,  like  one 
seeking  refuge. 

TriE  VOICE  OF" BEATA.  (From  among  the  olean- 
ders. )  Mamma !  Mamma ! 

(The    mother    starts,    and    turns,    frightfully 

pallid. 
Mamma ! 

( The  child  rushes  towards  her  mother  with  a 
cry  of  joy,  her  face  lit  up,  heated,  her  hair 
in  disorder,  panting  after  a  long  run,  carry- 
ing an   untidy   bunch   of  flowers.     As  she 
runs   in,    the    bunch   falls.      The   mutilated 
woman  stoops  towards  the  little  arms  that 
clasp   her  neck,  and   offers   her  death-like 
face  to  the  furious  kisses. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata!   Beata! 
BEATA.     (Panting.)     Ah,  how  I  have  run,  how 
I  have  run !     I  ran  away  from  them,  all  alone.    I 
ran,   I   ran.     They   didn't  want   to   let  me   come. 
Ah,  but  I  ran  away  from,  them,  with  my  bunch  of 
flowers. 

(Covers  her  mother's  face  with  fresh  kisses, 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     You  are  all  damp  with  sweat, 
you  are  hot,  burning.  .  .  My  God! 


GIOCONDA. 


23 


(In   ln-r  rush  of  tenderness  she  instinctively 
makes' a  movement  as  if  to  wipe  the  child's 
face:   but  stops  and  hides  her  arms  in  the 
folds    of    her    garments;    and   a   shiver   of 
risible  horror  runs  through  her. 
BEATA.     Whv    don't    you    take    me    up?      Why 
don't  you  put  your  arms  round  me?     Take  me  up, 
take  me  up,  mamma ! 

(She  rises  on  tiptoe,  to   be  caught  into  her 
mother's    embrace.      The    mother    takes    a 
step  backwards,  blindly. 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata! 

BEATA.     (Following  her.)     Don't  you  want  me? 
don't  you  want  me? 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata ! 

(She  tries   to  feign  a  smile  with  her  ashen 

lips,  distorted  by  unspeakable  sorrow. 
BEATA.     Is  it  for  fun?     What  are  you  hiding? 
O,  give,  give  me  what  you  are  hiding! 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata !     Beata ! 
BEATA.     I  have  brought  you  flowers,  such  a  lot 
of  flowers.     Do  you  see?  do  you  see? 

(.Is  she  turns  to  pick  up  the  fallen  bunch,  she 
perceives  her  little  wild  friend,  and  remem- 
bers her. 
Oh,  Sirenetta  !     Are  you  there  ? 

(•LA  SIRENETTA  is  there,  before  the  windo'w, 
standing,   a   silent    witness,   with   her  eyes 


fixed  on  the  sorrowful  mother.  As  the 
repeated  breath  of  the  wind  passes  between 
the  fronds  of  an  arbutus  and  makes  it 
tremble,  so  the  sorrow  of  the  mother  seems 
to  invest  and  penetrate  that  slender  body 
irhich  the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  ring  with 
bands  of  gold. 
Do  you  see  what  a  lot?  All  for  you!' 

(The  child  picks'  up  the  bunch. 
Take  it! 

(She   runs    towards   her   mother  again,   who 

steps  back. 

SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata !     Beata ! 
BEATA.      ( Astonished. )     Don't  you  want  them? 
Take  them!     Take  them! 
SILVIA  SETTALA.     Beata ! 

(She  falls  on  her  knees,  overcome  with  sor- 
row, as  ,f  stricken  by  an  unendurable  blow, 
falls  on  her  knees  before  her  frightened 
child;  and  a  flood  of  tears,  that  bursts 
from  her  eyes  like  blood  from  a  wound, 
bathes  her  face. 

±}EATA.  You  are  crying?  You  are  crying? 
(Frightened,  she  throics  herself  upon  her 
mother's  breast,  with  all  her  flowers.  LA 
SIRENETTA,  who  has  also  fallen  on  her  knees, 
Jays  her  forehead  and  the  palms  of  her 
hands  upon  the  ground. 


7HE    END. 


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